


Seven Fucking Voicemails

by Wicked42



Series: Dadvid in Denver AU [1]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fever, Gen, Gwen & Max bond, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Drug Use, MomGwen, Near Death, Set between Camps, Sickfic, Whump, cursing abound, dadvid, depression and anxiety, stupid last names sorry, yikes i promise it'll have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-16 13:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: Gwen doesn't speak to David anymore. Living in Carmel, Indiana, she's finally turned her life around, finally facing a summer that won't start in Camp Campbell. And good riddance to them all.But when a Colorado hospital calls with dire news about David, Gwen abandons everything to race to the Mile High City. Except the circumstances around her ex-CBFL's "accident" only raise more questions, and she begins to fear David is in serious danger... and it's not because of his life-threatening wounds.Plus, there's another problem: apparently David has a houseguest.





	1. Voicemails

The call came at the worst possible time.

“Well. Miss, ah, Stephani,” the man across the table paused, as people always did when reading her last name. At least he got through it with a straight face. “Your resume is impressive, and your writing samples show promise.”

Oh my god, this was it. Gwen leaned forward, plastering a fake, bright smile on her face. What was this guy’s name again? She should use it when he offers her the job. Show she was paying attention. Kevin? Keith? She couldn’t remember.

Shit, she sucked at this interviewing thing.

“I do think we have a place for you—”

Sweet Jesus, here it was. The job of her dreams. No more serving burnt coffee at that stupid diner to truckers who leered at her or asked for a “whiter” waitress. No more late nights applying for jobs all over the country, knowing she wouldn’t have the money to move if they offered. No more plastered smiles and polite “yes ma’am, no sir,” conversation, desperate to convince one goddamn recruiter she might be a good addition to their team.

But most importantly, no more Camp Campbell. And _no more David_.

“How soon can you start?”

Gwen opened her mouth—to accept the job, certainly not to scream in excitement—when a rap song echoed through the office. She stiffened. Oh, god. She’d forgotten to turn her cell on silent.

The interviewer frowned. “I should warn you, this is a cellphone free office.”

“O-Of course, sir,” she squeaked, rummaging through her bag. It wasn’t a number she recognized, but she didn’t stop to analyze the zip code. She just shoved it back into her purse and beamed. “I can start whenever you need. Right now, if you’d like!”

He paused for a long moment, during which sweat trickled down the back of Gwen’s neck and she swore she would suffocate, before cracking a smile. “That’s not necessary. How about Monday?”

Four days away. She could last four fucking days at that awful diner.

Or maybe, fuck that. Maybe now was time for a much-needed stay-cation. She’d always imagined peacing out on Mrs. Harrolds. Just—not showing up for work, so maybe the crotchety manager would have to get off her ass and cover a shift once in a while.

Yeah. That sounded amazing. A long weekend of trash TV, fanfiction, and mastur…ing the fine arts.

Ah, who the hell was she kidding. There weren’t any kids working at a newspaper. She’d never have to censor her language again. This was the fucking best.

The man—her new boss—provided her with some forms to sign, then directed her to the HR department to get her new ID. It took another hour, time spent convinced he’d intercept her, rescind her offer. But when she left the Zionsville Times Sentinel, it was with a shiny new badge and confirmation she was on their payroll.

It wasn’t until she was sitting at her favorite bar, taking a celebratory round of shots, that she remembered the missed call.

And when she pulled out her phone, it was to seven voicemails.

Her eyes caught the area code, and a scowl tilted her lips. Denver. Ugh. She only knew one person living in Denver, and his number was blocked for a reason. She almost deleted all the voicemails without listening, but some nagging part of her brain stopped her.

David had finally, _finally_ gotten it through his thick skull that she didn’t want to talk. He’d stopped calling her four months ago. The apology gifts ceased a month after that. As far as she was concerned, he’d moved on, and it was about goddamn time.

But that didn’t solve the mystery of these voicemails.

Oh, god. Couldn’t she just celebrate in peace? _Jesus, David_. Gwen waved for another shot of bourbon. The bartender, a guy named Wally with a smarmy grin and an even smarmier apartment, winked and slid one towards her.

“On the house,” he said.

Gwen smirked. “You’re just trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”

“Well, that’s my job.” He waggled his eyebrows. “How many shots do you need before you’ll come home with me?”

Gwen pretended to consider it.

Actually, she _was_ considering it. What better way to kick off her stay-cation? He may not be the classiest guy, but Wally was a guaranteed good time. Something about the way he leered sometimes reminded her of those truckers, like she was another piece of exotic meat, but he sure knew how to fuck.

Plus, free drinks.

“At least four more, Wally.”

He plucked the bourbon bottle off the shelf and slid it her way. “Here you go, darlin’.” God, even his fake southern accent was oily. How he managed that, she had no idea. But she took the bottle.

“What the hell. I’m celebrating,” she said, and downed the shot. It burned her throat, but it was nothing compared to the sick feeling in her gut.

Wally grinned. “Celebrating, huh? Well, be a shame to do _that_ alone.”

“I think you’re right,” Gwen didn’t have to fake the flirtation in her tone.

Wally leaned closer, but another customer called to him. With a frustrated sigh, he strolled away, leaving her with her booze and her phone.

And those seven fucking voicemails.

Ugh. Thinking about David made her nose wrinkle. He’d promised they wouldn’t talk again until Camp.

Which meant they’d never talk again, because after _that weekend_ , Gwen sure as hell wasn’t reviving any of his Counselor Buddies for Life shit. She’d spent hours at the diner imagining the look on his face when he realized she wasn’t showing this summer.

He’d probably cry in front of all the campers.

Not that she cared, after he betrayed her like that.

The liquor was coursing through her system now, fuzzing her mind and warming her irritation. What right did David have to call her now, out of the blue? Why did he have to ruin her evening, one that suddenly promised to be so engaging? Gwen’s eyes lingered on Wally’s tight ass for a bare minute before scowling.

Well. She’d tell him. She’d call that stupid Denver number and ream into him for trying with an unidentified phone, as if he could catch her off guard. She’d rant and rave about interrupting her interview, her _life_ , and she wouldn’t hang up until he’d sworn on Camp Campbell’s flagpole he’d leave. Her. Alone. 

She tapped the mysterious number. It rang once, twice, as Wally swaggered back over. She held up a hand to keep him quiet. He looked mildly offended.  

Someone answered on the fourth ring.

“Medical Center of Aurora. How can I direct your call?”

Gwen yelped and hung up.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Wally crooned, bending over the bar so their faces were inches apart.

But Gwen suddenly wasn’t in the mood for flirting. “That—that was a hospital.”

Wally raised an eyebrow. “A hospital? Are you hurt?”

“Not me.” Her blood had turned to ice. Even though her mind said everything was probably fine, there weren’t many reasons for a hospital in Colorado to be calling her.

Once upon a time, she’d been David’s emergency contact. But that couldn’t still be true.

Not after what he’d done.

Not after the things she’d said.

“I—I have to go,” she said numbly. Wally protested as she tossed down a few dollars for the shot, but his words might as well have been background noise. In fact, the whole world seemed to have muted, a roaring in her ears narrowing everything to the cell phone in her hand.

To those seven. Fucking. Voicemails.

She burst into the freezing night air. It was March, but March in Indiana was still pretty damn cold. Her coat felt thin as paper as she pressed against the brick building, ducking her head against the passersby for a bit of privacy.

She clicked on the first voicemail and held the phone to her ear.

“ _Hello, Ms... Ah, Ms. Stephani. This is Josie, at the Medical Center of Aurora. I’m afraid I have some bad news._ ”

No.

“ _We have a David Forrester here. He’s—well, he’s been attacked. He’s in surgery now. We’re not certain he’ll make it. Please call us back._ ”

Gwen felt numb as the other voicemails began to play.

“ _Hello again, Ms. Stephani. This is Josie. David’s still in surgery, but he’s crashing.”_

_“—revived him twice, but he’s in critical condition—”_

_“—call us back at your earliest convenience. Mr. Forrester is not—”_

Gwen’s fingers trembled, so hard the phone almost clattered to the sidewalk. People didn’t pay her any mind, strolling along like her world wasn’t collapsing around her. Like her best friend wasn’t dying. Clumsily, she jabbed the final voicemail, left over an hour ago.

“ _Good evening, Ms. Stephani. This is Doctor Smith. David is out of surgery, but we’re… we’re not optimistic. Please call us back.”_

Gwen didn’t call back. She didn’t dare.

Choking on a sob, she hailed an Uber for the airport. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! I'm writing this amidst an original project, but OMG I just finished Camp Camp (well, up to the most recent episode, anyway) and WTF it's SO GOOD. And then I got this awful idea for torturing David relentlessly and... well, I just couldn't resist. My other book can wait. XD
> 
> So here, have a gravely-injured David and a Sherlock Gwen and an angsty Max. What a happy family. :P The whole story is plotted out, so updates should be fairly regular!
> 
> (DEEP pardons for the last names here. Omg I'm so not original.)
> 
> My beautiful, AMAZING sister (what, no, she's not writing this, what are you talking about) has made me [a tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	2. Reality Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen visits David in the hospital... but there's something weird about his accident.

Flying to Denver last minute drained Gwen’s bank account. She wasn’t actually sure how she’d be getting home once all this was over. Once David woke up, once the doctor assured her it wasn’t as serious as they’d claimed, once she reamed into him for being so _stupid_.

An accident? What the fuck. David was an accident-prone kind of guy, but she’d seen him roasting on a spit like a trussed-up pig one minute, bouncing around Camp the next.

There had to be a mistake. Maybe they meant another David Forrester. There were probably loads of them in an outdoorsy place like Colorado.

Gwen cycled through every possible cop-out on the two and a half hour nonstop. When they landed in Denver International, she glanced at her cell, still on airplane mode, and shoved it into her purse. There was no fucking way she was checking her voicemails.

No fucking way she’d get the news David was dead over the _phone_.

The hospital was another thirty minutes from the airport, and the entire time Gwen was slammed with memories. She’d visited David here more than once, back when they still spoke.

Back when they were friends.

He always kept in touch. Every other Sunday, they’d have Coffee Talk, where he drank tea in Colorado and she drank coffee in Indiana and they’d chat about everything from the latest episode of Doctor Who to the lovely weather in the Rockies. It used to be the highlight of her month.

That was a long time ago.

She burst out of the Uber and promptly froze. The big, stone building loomed over her, with an ER entrance left, bustling with panicked people, and a quieter entrance for everyone else to the right. In that brief, terrifying moment, she had no idea which one pertained to her. It was close to eleven, and storm clouds loomed over the glare of the city, but she couldn’t force herself to move.

Truthfully, it wasn’t about the entrances.

Guilt threatened to destroy her. She’d sworn over the last few months that she didn’t care about David, didn’t have room in her life for “friends” who couldn’t remember the important events.

She told herself she wouldn’t miss him. For a while, it became true.

But the minute she heard Josie’s voicemail, she realized her lies. David was her co-counselor. He made a mistake—a huge, awful mistake—but Jesus, if he died tonight, without her accepting his many apologies…

She’d be broken.

God, she’d been so stubborn, so stupid. Her eyes welled for the umpteenth time. The bourbon had worn off, replaced with weary exhaustion and suffocating sadness. The responsible, adult part of her brain muttered plans, how she’d organize a funeral, who she’d invite, but—the child part whimpered the truth.

David didn’t have a family. Well, he had a deadbeat mom in Canada, but no one could get in touch with her. Follow that with a dad in prison, another kind-of dad in prison, plus a bunch of campers who wavered between threadbare respect and outright hatred for David’s guts… and his guest list would be pretty damn short.

It started to rain.

No more stalling. Gwen let the water wash away her tears, swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and stepped into the hospital. She couldn’t handle the chaos of the ER entrance, so she used the other one. A young woman sitting behind the reception desk looked up, expression hard, and said, “Visiting hours are over.”

“I was called here. It’s—it’s an emergency.”

“Whatever. Name?”

“Gwen. Ah, Gwen Stephani?”

“Are you joking?” the woman sneered.

Fury welled like magma in a volcano. “No.”

She rolled her eyes and tapped the name into her computer, and Gwen realized her mistake too late. “Well, you’re out of luck. No Gwen Stephani checked in here.” Her tone was deadpan, like she was still convinced Gwen was lying about the name.

She gritted her teeth. “I’m here for David Forrester. I didn’t know that’s what you were asking.”

The receptionist scoffed and typed the new name. Whatever she saw must have been bad, because sympathy overrode her face, and she said, quietly, “Oh. I see. Ah, he’s in Critical Care. Room 212.”

Thank _Jesus_ , he was alive. But the way the woman stared at her, the pity in her eyes… it made Gwen’s skin crawl. Like being alive wasn’t enough.

Gwen robotically followed the receptionist’s directions. Down the hall. Up an elevator. Past the nurse’s station, empty. And there. She stilled beside an open door, eyes settling on the plaque. It read 212, with a scribbled name underneath.

_Forrester, David._

So he wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. But somehow, she couldn’t feel relieved, even as she stepped into the room and found a mop of red hair, a freckled face, a rising chest.

He was alive. Somehow, the bastard had pulled through.

But Jesus, he looked worse than Gwen had ever seen him, and that was saying something. His already pale complexion was drained, leaving him white as the sheets they’d draped over his body. A breathing tube had been shoved down his throat, hissing every time he drew a labored breath. Wires snaked up his bedside, leading to machines that probably cost more than Gwen’s rent for a year.

She pressed her fist against her lips to keep from crying.

It didn’t work.

Numb, she sunk into the chair beside his bed. It was cold, like no one had been sitting in it lately. Which was fucking insane, because David lived and worked in this stupid city. Why didn’t he have _friends_? He was an elementary school bus driver, or some shit. Surely he at least had coworkers who would care he was gone.

He was _David_. How could no one care?

His hand was still, and she reached for it, glancing at the door to make sure no one saw her. But they were into the graveyard shift now, and any nurses wandering the halls weren’t concerned with the unconscious man in room 212.

Gwen’s fingers curled around his. God, they were cold. She rubbed them, absently, glancing at his face. That breathing tube looked horrific, and the fact that he needed it chilled her more than she cared to admit.

“H-Hey, David,” she croaked. Her voice was rusty from disuse, her throat sore from crying. A headache pounded dully between her eyes. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Heard today’s been pretty shitty.”

He didn’t reply.

She kept talking. “You—you scared the shit out of me. You know that? I’m over in Carmel, minding my own business, and I get seven fucking voicemails from some nurse named Josie, talking like it’s doomsday and you’re never coming back.” She laughed, the sound harsh, forced. “As if something like this could keep you down. She obviously doesn’t know who she’s talking about.”

David’s face remained smooth. Unresponsive. The only reason she knew he was alive was the rise and fall of his chest. But even that wasn’t easy. He’d breath out, and she’d count the seconds until he managed to heave in another through that hissing tube.

“Oh, god,” her voice wobbled. “This is really bad, isn’t it? What the fuck happened, David?”

Silence was her answer.

Actually, her answer came from a soft knock on the doorframe. She spun, dropping David’s hand, to see a tall nurse hovering in the doorway. The woman had a kind, sad smile, and whispered, “Are you Gwendolyn? We’ve been trying to call you.”

“I know,” Gwen managed, casting one last glance at David before trudging into the hallway.

The nurse’s voice got a little louder, but her soothing tone never changed. “I’m Josie. I’ve been here since Mr. Forrester was brought in.”

“You can call him David. He never goes by his last name.”

“Okay,” she replied easily. Her eyes flicked into the room. “David’s doing well for someone with his injuries, but—”

“What happened?” Gwen demanded, desperation tinging her voice. It shouldn’t matter, not really. The events were in the past, and she couldn’t change them. But she still—she had to know.

Josie’s voice was level. “He was the victim of a stabbing.”

What? That had to be a joke. People on the five o’clock news got stabbed. People on those fundraiser websites, accompanied by some tragic story and a pretty picture. Not someone she knew. Not David.

She’d never have fathomed  _stabbing_ when Josie said _accident_.

The nurse continued: “A bystander found him bleeding in an alley not far from here. Police are still searching for his attacker, but he was lucky.”

“Lucky,” Gwen repeated.

“Well, if he’d been found ten minutes later, he wouldn’t have had a chance.”

Oh, God. Gwen pressed her palms into her eyes, as if it might erase this nightmare. But when she lowered them, Josie was still there, expression sympathetic.

“There’s something else, Ms. Stephani,” now, for the first time, Josie fidgeted. “Does David have a history with drugs?”

Gwen burst out laughing. It was loud and obnoxious and a nurse several doors down ducked into the hall to glare, but Gwen was beyond the point of caring. She laughed some more, clapped Josie’s shoulder, and gasped, “David? No. Nope.”

“We found methamphetamine in his system. His dose was dangerously high. If he hadn’t been attacked, there’s a chance he would have died tonight from overdose.”

This had to be a joke. But Josie still wasn’t laughing.

Gwen could barely focus. “I don’t—I don’t understand. David works with kids. He’d never do anything to endanger them. He doesn’t even drink coffee, for fuck’s sake.”

She could imagine him standing over her shoulder, waggling his finger, chiming, “Language, Gwen. You’re in a hospital.” But nope. It was just her and Josie, and the man himself lying unconscious ten feet away.

Josie stuck her hands into the pockets of her pink scrubs. “Well, we can run a hair test to see if there’s evidence of long-term abuse.”

“If that’ll get you off his case, do it,” Gwen snapped. “Because there’s no way in hell he did meth.” It wasn’t Josie’s fault, but Gwen was quickly losing patience with this whole conversation. “Look, I flew in from Indiana to see him. When will he wake up?”

Josie looked uncomfortable. “Didn’t you listen to all my voicemails?” When Gwen clenched her jaw, the nurse continued, quietly. “David’s in a coma. Ah, we’re not sure when— _if_ —he’ll wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg you guys BLEW ME AWAY with all of your kind comments and kudos. :D I wasn't even going to post this for like, a week, but GAH I love you guys so much. <3 
> 
> Sorry Gwen was so abrasive in the last chapter! That's what I get for writing it late at night and thinking it's fine. :P Hopefully her character is more IC in these chapters! And YES, I promise there's a whole history behind their fallout. Friendships fail sometimes, and it's beautifully angsty. MWAHAHA. 
> 
> Also, I have no idea if a hospital would just offer to do a hair test like that, but now they are. SO THERE. *no research FTW*
> 
> Ahem. Okay, that's it. Next chapter, MAX! (Kind of.) And knowing my instant gratification mentality, it'll be posted like, tomorrow night. XD Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	3. David's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen goes to David's apartment and finds some pretty damning evidence. Something major has changed in David's life.

Whoever stabbed David was a shitty robber, because they didn’t steal any of his stuff. When Josie handed a plastic baggie with his clothes, shoes, and other personal effects, fear crept along Gwen’s spine. The nurse seemed certain that David was just a crazed druggie in the wrong place, but this whole thing reeked of something bigger. Gwen just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Luckily, that left the key to David’s place in her possession. She vaguely recalled that he’d moved since she’d last visited, checked his license to reaffirm his address, then spent longer than necessary staring at the bright-eyed picture of him in the top left corner. God, he looked so fucking happy.

Well, either he’d survive the night, or he wouldn’t. This hospital was stressing her out, and if he wasn’t waking up anyway, there was no point in her staying. Josie promised to call in the morning, but she seemed to judge Gwen’s decision to leave.

Ironic, since Gwen wasn’t the one calling David a drug addict.

With one last, dark glance at the man in the hospital bed, Gwen called another Uber.

David’s apartment wasn’t that far away, nestled east of a reservoir he probably adored. The car dropped her off in front of the complex. It was old and run-down, but probably cheap enough to live decently. Still, Gwen’s nerves raced every time a car passed. This didn’t strike her as the safest part of town. 

Sometime while she was in the hospital, the rain turned to snow. In typical Colorado fashion, the temperature had plummeted, leaving Gwen clutching David’s effects against her chest as she hustled up the concrete steps, careful not to slip on ice forming in the corners.

The third floor was a brief hallway with four doors. Through one, Gwen heard shouting, an fierce argument about... shoes... or something. She gritted her teeth and stalked to David’s apartment, although her gut coiled that this was where her sunny friend spent his nights.

The key slid inside, but the door opened without turning it. Huh. Unlocked. Once again, Gwen’s gut clenched, but David was fairly forgetful. There was a real, earnest chance he’d been saying hello to his neighbors and forgot to lock it.   

Still, she tensed, stepping inside and flicking on the lights. The snow melted under her boots, dripping onto the linoleum as Gwen scanned the area. But it was cold outside and warm in here, and the place was silent as the grave. No sign of a break-in. Just David being David.

Gwen closed the door, a pained smile tilting her lips.

And _Jesus_ , this apartment was definitely David. It was clean and tidy, with mugs on display in the galley kitchen and a plush throw over the second-hand couch. Nothing luxurious, but there were plants in every corner and hand-painted pictures on every wall. Like relics of Camps long-since past.

Except… wait. She’d seen David draw a million times, and half of these paintings weren’t his. She paused by one hanging near the door, in full-view of visitors. Like David had been proud to display it, even though it was barely more than harsh, angry scribbles.

Only one kid drew like that, like he was taking out unearned decades of frustration with every stroke. Like he was wishing he could dig the crayon into David’s eyes instead.

 _Max_.

Maybe David kept in touch with the little bastard. Why, she could barely fathom, except that David and Max bonded at Camp. They were two sides of the same coin: one brimming with sunshine, the other brooding in darkness.

Shit. Max was one more loose end to tie if—if David didn’t make it. An overwhelming sadness clenched Gwen’s chest, threatening to swallow her whole. Now that she was inside the apartment, safe and alone, the crippling exhaustion of constant anxiety left her breathless. She sunk to the ground right in front of Max’s stupid drawing.

It was like drowning. Her trash shows always depicted it with earsplitting wails, thrashing, screaming. But reality was far quieter, just a soft gasp before the anguish consumed her. She curled up on the carpet, too tired to cry, too spent to shake.

But her mind was too wired to sleep.

Eventually, she picked herself off the floor.

Eventually, she staggered to the mugs hanging off a wooden tree-like structure. Picked the one David used to use during their Coffee Talks, the one from Camp that said "#1 Counselor." Filled it with hot water, plucked a teabag from his cabinet, and slumped against the counter while it steeped.

Eventually, casting a dark glance at the open door to what was clearly David’s room, she trudged into the guest room, steaming mug in hand.

And she stopped short. There were dirty hoodies in varying shades of blue scattered across the floor. A desk spread with a child’s homework. A cheery poster with a kitten, hanging off a tree branch, quoting the words, “Hang in there!” A nearby calendar with dates circled in green, scribbled with events like MULTIPLICATION TEST and FIELD TRIP!

David had even hung a chores list beside the bed, with skull stickers denoting completed tasks. The “make your bed” stickers were absent all week, but the most recent chores had been done today. Gwen zeroed on the rumpled bedsheets, dread covering her like a wet blanket.

There. A ratty teddy bear.

The mug dropped to the floor. Hot tea soaked into the beige carpet, and the ceramic bounced into the doorframe.

“Max,” she hissed into the room. “I know you’re here. Come out, you little shit.”

No one replied. And she knew for a fact that if Max were here, he wouldn’t bother hiding. He’d never have let her collapse on wet linoleum without a snide comment or four. She wouldn’t be able to drink David’s chamomile tea without him sneering.

“Jesus,” she muttered, bracing herself against the wall.

David hadn’t just kept in touch with Max.

He’d fucking adopted him.

And then, the loathing started. Fucking David. _Fucking David_. What, they talked all the time up until That Weekend, and four months later he had a fucking kid? When was he going to tell her about this little development, huh?

Apparently, on his death bed. She snarled, smacking the wall with her open hand. It stung, but the pain gave her something else to focus on. She knew she was being irrational. _She’d_ told _him_ not to call.

What did she expect?

It didn’t stop the hot anger that coursed through her. The dark corner of her mind whispered that being furious at David meant she wasn’t mourning him. That one was distinctly easier than the other.

Well, that was Gwen. A coward. Always taking the easy way out.

“Max,” she seethed.

No reply.

Wait. The blood drained from her face. If Max lived here now, why the hell wasn’t he in bed? Even that shit ten-year-old should be sound asleep by this hour. Hell, _Gwen_ should be sound asleep by this hour. Her eyes drifted to the window, to the snow outside, and goosebumps pebbled her arms.

He wouldn’t.

Jesus, he would. He’d gone and fucking run away, and on the _one_ night David needed her more.

David would be devastated if anything happened to his campers, even seven months past the end of summer camp. And March in Denver was not kind; no way in hell she could just let Max wander outside in this weather. She had to find him.

And then she was going to _kill_ him.

Grabbing a second, oversized coat from David’s dark closet, she delved back into the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I just love late-night posts. Probably because I LOVE to wake up to reviews. You guys are AMAZING and AWESOME and I love this fandom so much. 
> 
> Next few chapters will be longer than this one! Updates soon! :D
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	4. The Snowstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen finds Max, but it's not good.

God _damn_ this kid.

Gwen’s teeth chattered as she paused at the base of the apartment building’s staircase, scanning the inky black night. Streetlamps lined the complex, but beyond their circles of light yawned a dark chasm where any ten-year-old could hide forever.

Max could be anywhere.

Okay. Put herself in his shoes. He likened himself to an escape artist, but not _once_ had he managed to escape Camp Campbell. Which either meant he was too stupid to procure a plan that worked—yeah, _right_ —or he never really wanted to leave.

Ding ding ding.

David must have known it all along. Whenever Gwen would jokingly say that one morning, Max’s tent would be empty, David would laugh and reply, “Oh, Gwen. He loves it here.”

She used to think he was insane. Now she wondered just how much he saw, and what else she was missing. Maybe _he_ should have been the psych major.

Gwen shook her head. Focus. It was fucking freezing outside, and if _she_ was shaking after just a few minutes standing dumbly in the parking lot, Max could be in serious danger. She shuddered and started toward the complex’s entrance.

So, okay. A kid who pretends to hate Camp, David, and everything else… but doesn’t, really. Why would he waste the effort?

Because that effort meant hiding who he really was. Like a spell over one of Nerris’s magical characters, it protected him. Shielded him. If he feigned apathy, he’d never be disappointed. Never be rejected.

God, she hated this degree. Human defense mechanisms were fucking messed up, and she hardly had the patience for _normal_ people.

Gwen gritted her teeth and kept thinking, all the while scanning the dark corners of the complex for signs of curly black hair.

His parents didn’t care about him. His friends cared, David cared, and on a good day, he could find a kindred spirit in Gwen. But truthfully, Max had been fucked over before he ever came to Camp Campbell. He was used to being discounted, disregarded. Abandoned.

Now imagine a little boy who moves in with his ex-camp counselor, for whatever reason.

And imagine said camp counselor, one night, just… doesn’t come home.

Gwen swallowed past the lump in her throat. Oh. Oh god. Max probably thought David purposefully did this. She could imagine him hunched over his homework as the afternoon drew to a close, knowing David would ask to see it when he got back. But the minutes ticked by, long past the time when the cheery man usually strolled in the door. Long past the time when David should be tucking him into bed.

What other conclusion could an emotionally neglected ten-year-old draw?

“Shit.” Her throat was thick, the word garbled. Screw the neighbors. Screw decency. Coughing against the biting chill of the wind, she called, “Max! Maaaaax!”

David would never abandon him. Max should know that… but emotion clouded judgement, and children weren’t always logical. It would take years of therapy to undo the damage his parents did when they dumped him at a summer camp, just to get rid of him.

He probably expected _every_ adult wanted to be rid of him.

Gwen’s heart ached, and she broke into a run, shouting all the while. But no child resurfaced during her frantic hunt through the complex. Wherever Max had gone, it wasn’t here.

Desperate, she widened her search. This would be so much easier with a car, but a rental required money she no longer had. Even an Uber would be pushing it right now. The wind howled and the snow fell and exhaustion weighed her limbs, but she just tugged David’s jacket over hers and kept going.

She reached an underpass, with the freeway roaring overhead. Even at this hour, people were still coming and going, oblivious to the missing child and frantic adult hunting for him. How far could Max have gotten, realistically? He was just a kid.

Then again, his parents lived in Oregon, and somehow he’d wound up here. No one could say he wasn’t resourceful. The thought of him getting on a bus now struck her as wrong, though. If Max was ready to skip town, he’d have taken that stupid teddy bear with him. But the fact that he left his stuff behind implied he _wanted_ David to follow.

He probably just wanted to scare him. Make him suffer like Max was suffering. Which was stupid and idiotic and _mean_.

And she’d been guilty of the same exact thing, hadn’t she? She’d felt that perverse pleasure at David’s quiet, “Okay, Gwen, I… I guess I’ll stop calling.” Like she’d won, because now he was as depressed and confused as she’d been That Weekend.

God, she and Max were eerily similar, weren’t they?

Stomach churning, she plowed along, trudging through sleet and snow. Her face was numb and her ears were freezing, but despite the headache now throbbing behind her forehead, she refused to stop.

Logic said she should call the police. A kid was missing, and this storm was no joke. But—there was a very real chance Max wasn’t staying with David legally. She’d met Max’s folks. They were assholes, but they prided themselves on being “parents,” even if they didn’t deserve the word. If they got wind of Max here, with David, they might swoop in and steal him right back. And the kid clearly left for a reason.

No police.

Not yet.

It took a perilous half hour of wandering the streets before she faced a sign that said, “Cherry Creek Reservoir,” with a white arrow pointing across the intersection.

The reservoir. God, that had to be it. David could never resist water sports. He’d spent half the goddamn summer on Camp Campbell’s lake. And Max was always right there with him, even if his participation centered around cackling as David belly-flopped.

It was the only lead she had. With a choking breath, she sprinted across the intersection, scrambled up a sloping hill towards the reservoir. The scattered trees gave way to a dark, icy lake… and a rest stop. Bathrooms, water fountains, picnic tables. A veritable winter wonderland.

And there, slumped under a thin hoodie, coated in snow, was Max.

Jesus _,_ he must be so cold.

“Max!” she screamed, skidding to kneel beside him.

He didn’t move. And that made her heart hammer, her breath leave in a _whoosh_. He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?

She shook his shoulder. He was slumped against the picnic table, like he’d fallen asleep. But he _wasn’t moving_. Panic clouded her mind, and—not gently—she wrenched his tiny body off the table. His head lolled. “Wake up. Max! Wake up, you little shit.”

His eyelids fluttered. Gwen nearly laughed, hugging him to her chest. He was alive. Alive and not dead and _shit_ , he was freezing **.** She pulled away, pressed her hands against his forehead and cheeks. His normally copper skin was red, more like bright rust, waxen and icy under her fingers.

Oh, god. She should call an ambulance. That would be the responsible thing to do. But again, she faced the same issues as with the police. Did Max even have identification on him? Would they let her stay with him in the hospital, even if she wasn’t family?

And if they didn’t, how would he react, waking in a strange white room… alone?

Gwen shuddered violently. Max remained still.

He must have been out here for hours, watching the rain turn to snow while she blubbered in David’s goddamn hospital room. How had everything gone to hell so fast?

She was supposed to be curled on her lumpy couch, binging _Werewolves of Los Angeles_ right now. Grinning while Ms. Harrolds called and called and finally got the hint that Gwen was never going back to that diner. Preparing her outfit for her first day at the Zionsville Times Sentinel.

She was _supposed_ to be starting a new life.

Instead, she was watching a little boy lose his.

“Max!” she snarled—sobbed. Had he always been so small? So fragile? He seemed larger than life at Camp. “This was fucking stupid, even for you, you little devil. Open your eyes!”

Maybe it was the tone of voice. Or the insults. But for whatever reason, he groaned against her, as if clawing back to the land of the living.

There was a very good chance that shouting at him out here, in the icy chill, wouldn't do any good. That he needed to be warm before he could respond. Clumsily, she bundled him inside David’s oversized jacket. It was thick and warm, and she tugged the hood over his forehead, so only his nose and mouth were exposed. Losing the second layer had her teeth chattering, which just made her more irate. What had Max been thinking, running outside in a thin sweatshirt during a snowstorm?

Well, he was a kid. He probably _wasn’t_ thinking… and that was the scariest thing of all.

She gathered him in her arms. He barely seemed to weigh anything. Or maybe that was her adrenaline kicking in, thrumming through her veins as she sprinted down the hill, through the intersection, all the way to David’s complex.

When she opened the apartment door, maneuvering Max through the thin entrance as carefully as she could, her eyes dropped to the deadbolt. So David hadn’t forgotten to lock his apartment after all. Max just hadn’t bothered when he left.

Almost as if he wanted to leave David multiple clues—not enough information to find him quickly, but enough to give David a heart attack while he put the pieces together.

In that brief moment, as Gwen slammed the apartment door shut and stomped into Max’s bedroom, she hated the boy. Hated that his coping skills sucked so much. Hated that he thought hurting others would make himself feel better.

Hated herself for doing the same thing.

She stripped his snow-soaked clothes, tugged on thick, flannel pajamas—dinosaur footies, buried deep in the bottom of the dresser, clearly a gift from David that offended Max to his core—and dried his hair with a fluffy towel. His skin was still red, his fingers too cold. She buried him under his duvet, racking her brain about what else do to.

Warm the patient.

That was the extent of her first aid training in hypothermia.

What did she expect? She worked at a _summer_ camp.

A quick google search said that anything warm—that wouldn’t burn—was a good idea. Gwen shoved a few towels into the dryer, ran them on high for several minutes. Meanwhile, she warmed some water, tested it with a quick sip, and stepped back into the bedroom.

“Max,” she whispered, shaking him under the bedding. She could barely feel his body through the cotton duvet.

But as she hoped, here in the warm apartment, out of his soaking clothes, he groaned awake. It was a slow process, getting him to open his eyes, but eventually bright green—no, cloudy green—stared back at her.

“Gwen?” he muttered.

“That’s right, you little demon.” Her shoulders slumped. Thank god. A hospital wouldn’t be necessary. She couldn’t have handled _two_ of her favorite people spending the night in that place. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help warm you up.”

She helped him upright, just enough to drink the warm water without choking. He took a few sips, then coughed, eyelids drooping. Wow. That didn't last long. His little body was probably working overtime to get his temperature back to normal. She eased him under the covers again, tucking him in nice and tight.

He struggled against it, but it was like wading through molasses, for all the progress he made. His words were slurred. “’S a weird dream…”

Gwen rolled her eyes, unable to quell her sardonic reply: “More like your worst nightmare. Go to sleep, Max. We’ll talk later.” She pressed her hands to his face, and he shuddered violently. Whether that was due to the icy temperature of her own fingers, or merely an adult touching him, she didn’t know.

She recoiled regardless.

He didn’t notice, his tired eyes scanning the room as he asked the one question she’d prayed he wouldn’t:

“D-David?”

Gwen froze. _Shit_. She forced a bright smile. Too bright. “He, ah… he ran to the store. He’ll be back soon.”

Max’s lips downturned, and his eyes shone in the soft, bedside light.

“Liar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo!! Another chapter! And OMG Max actually appears! MAGIC.
> 
> Okay, but for realzies, don't expect an update tomorrow. My aunt is visiting and I don't think I'll get much writing time. :P See you all on Monday!
> 
> PS: Your reviews are my LIFE BLOOD. That is all. <3
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	5. The Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max doesn't react well to his time in the snow.

Max slept for a long, long time after that. Gwen slept too, a little, but draped over the twin-sized bed with her butt in a hard kitchen chair wasn’t conducive for relaxation. She awoke to a terrible ache between her shoulder blades and an even worse headache than yesterday’s.

Oh, and a shrill cell phone ring. She flinched, jolting upright at a speed that rivaled David on the first day of Camp. Max stirred, but Gwen leapt from the room, closing his door to muffle the sound.

It was the hospital. She knew that number by heart now. Her body went cold, her face draining. This was it. David had died while she hunted for Max. Or worse, he slipped away while she slept, as if she couldn’t do _that_ the rest of her life. She swallowed past the cotton suddenly parching her mouth.

“H-Hello? This is Gwen.”

“ _Good morning, Ms. Stephani. This is Doctor Smith. I performed David Forrester’s surgery yesterday?”_

“Yeah. I remember,” she said, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. One hand’s knuckles darkened against the countertop while the other pressed the phone against her ear. She wanted to ask how David was, but couldn’t work up the courage. Not this early in the morning. Not after—not after Max.

God. He’d be devastated. There wouldn’t be enough comfort in the world to help that kid through David’s death, especially after last night’s stunt. Exhaustion—no, anxiety—crept through her bones like a cancer. How was _she_ supposed to handle What Comes Next?

She couldn’t.

Please. _Don’t make me_.

“ _David has been moved out of the Critical Care unit. His progress is excellent for someone in his position. We’re optimistic.”_

Excellent. Optimistic. All the tension drained out of her body.

And then Doctor Smith ratcheted it back up again. “ _However, we performed the hair test you requested. Although last night was the only evidence of methamphetamine, we did find use of opioid. The timeline is unclear with these tests, but it appears to be about three or four months ago. Keep in mind this test only goes a few months back, so if there was drug use before then—_ ”

“No,” Gwen replied, curtly. “There wasn’t. You’re wrong.”

“ _I see. Well,_ _I’ve left the results with his nurse, Josie. She’ll be in later this afternoon, if you want to speak with her about them.”_ The doctor’s words were pointed: he didn’t have time to override Gwen’s denial.

But he was wrong. The test was wrong.

 _Is it?_ a dark voice in her mind whispered. Four months ago… and wasn’t that timeline convenient? It aligned perfectly with That Weekend. When David had stood her up, vanished without a word.

Almost like he’d been on drugs.

Fury shot, hot and fast, through her body. Her face grew warm, and her hands trembled. Oh _hell_ no. Fucking drugs? _David_?? Jesus, that explained everything. His absence, the forgetful conversations, the lame excuses, the half-assed apologies.

She couldn’t fucking believe it.

“I understand,” she heard herself saying, coldly, distantly. “I’ll try to get to the hospital soon.” Her eyes settled on Max’s bedroom door, and she added, tightly, “Call me if anything changes.”

“ _Of course._ ” Doctor Smith hung up the phone.

Gwen lowered hers to the counter, resting her pounding head against the wood cabinets. Her eyes clenched shut as anger and sadness and betrayal washed over her in waves.

David hadn’t died, but his life was effectively over. Even if he cleaned himself up, he’d never be allowed near children again. This could go on his record; he’d be fired from every job he knew how to do. And Camp was out of the question; Campbell was a crook who pawned everything onto his counselors, but even _he_ wasn’t stupid enough to open himself to that lawsuit.

With no David and no Gwen, that camp might never reopen. It felt like everything in Gwen’s card house life was fluttering to hell.

So of course that was when Max stumbled out of his bedroom.

“Shit, you’re still here?” he said.

For a moment, her knee-jerk reaction kicked in. Just another day at Camp. “Yeah, smartass. I’m still here. How about a thank—” And then her eyes dropped to him, and the words cut off with a strangled choke.

Max looked _awful_. His normally poofy hair was matted with sweat, his stupid footie pajamas drenched in it. His face was beet red, worse even than the rust color last night. His green eyes were glazed, and he could barely seem to stand.

“ _Jesus_.”

“Nope. Just me,” he replied. Was she imagining it, or was he slurring his words?

Gwen wasn’t entertaining his snark right now. She crashed to her knees in front of him, pressing her hand against his forehead. “Max, what the hell? You need to be in bed.” He was burning up. She cringed and moved to gather him in her arms.

But he wasn’t hypothermic anymore, and he smacked her hand away, recoiling at the same time. His tone was venomous as he snarled, “Don’t touch me!”

Silence.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Okay. Okay,” Gwen inched back, holding up her hands. She was still on her knees, still eye level with him, but the space seemed to give him a bit of comfort. Concern ballooned in Gwen’s chest. Sure, he’d never been _touchy-feely_ at Camp, but that reaction was extreme.

What had happened since last summer?

Max shifted, bracing himself against the wall. His hazy green eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her. “You never said why—why you’re here.”

He was stumbling over his words. Max _never_ stumbled over his words. She needed to get him into bed, get him medicine, but he clearly wasn’t going to make that easy.

“David needed help,” Gwen replied, simply. The truth.

Part of it, anyway.

Max searched her face. “S-Still lying.”

Ugh. She didn’t need this. Not today, when Max himself was so sick. If she told him the truth, he’d just worry, and ask questions, and maybe demand to see David… and then they’d have to take a trip to the hospital, and she’d have to explain to Josie and Doctor Smith how she let a little kid under her care get hypothermia _and_ a scorching fever in the twelve hours since David left her in charge.

Well, he didn’t _technically_ leave her in charge. And based on how _this_ was going, that was a very, very smart choice.

“David had to take a trip. Family emergency.”

“David doesn’t h-have family,” Max snapped. “That’s kind of our thing.”

Of course it was. Gwen gnashed her teeth. “Listen, you little shit. David left, and he called me to watch you. And then you ran out into the snow like a goddamn idiot—”

Max gripped the wall with clenched fingers. His face was getting even redder, but the sweating had stopped. Which wasn’t good, by her limited first aid knowledge. “Stop. _Lying_. There’s no way in hell he’d call _you_.”

It was the way he said it, growled that one word, that pierced her heart. Like David would rather die than break his promise to leave Gwen alone. Like she wasn’t fit to be the #2 counselor, not anymore.

“In case you forgot,” Max spat, “you two aren’t friends anymore. You made that damn clear.”

Gwen swallowed. “What? No. We’re still friends.”

 “Jesus Christ, Gwen. Get your head out of your ass. You’re the reason he cried himself to sleep every night for a month. You’re the reason he thinks he’s worthless as a friend _and_ a person. If you’re going to make someone feel like shit, at least own up to it.”

So this is what it felt like to get stabbed. No wonder David was in the hospital.

Her first instinct was anger. Lash out at the shitty, sick kid. Remind him how devastated David would be if he knew about Max’s stunt last night. How _disrupted_ David’s life had become, taking in a ten-year-old kid who wasn’t even his.

 _He’s just protecting himself_ , her mind soothed. _Besides, isn’t this what you wanted?_

No.

Never in a million years.

Her anger fizzled as quickly as it ignited, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks instead. She dropped onto her ass, clenching her eyes shut, swallowing the wail of anguish that threatened to rip her in half.

A new job. A new life. Why was it so goddamn hard?

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m s-sorry.”

Max’s anger deflated just as fast. “Hey. Stop it.”

But his words had punctured the dingy Gwen crafted to stay afloat in this fucking mess. Her ship was sinking, the greedy tendrils of anxiety and depression wrapping around her ankles and yanking her into the depths. _Hello, Gwen_ , they whispered manically, _it’s been a while._

A tiny hand patted her arm. Even through her shirt, his touch felt unusually warm. He was still sick, but he wouldn’t let her help, so why should she care? If she didn’t give a shit about David and the emotional hell she put _him_ through, why would Max’s physical pain be any different?

“Shit, Gwen, pull yourself together.” His tone was rough, maybe a little faint.

“I fucked up,” she wailed. Her mind was a mess of thoughts, gnarled and dangerous. Only one person ever coached her through a mindfuck like this, and that person was lying in a goddamn hospital room. “And now David’s—David’s—”

“David’s what?”

She cracked open an eye to see Max inches from her face. Even though his breathing was ragged and his tiny hands gripped her shirt more like a lifeline than a threat, he still glared tiny daggers.

Daggers. Ha. That probably wasn’t the best metaphor.

But what the hell, right? It was about time they hurt together.

“David’s in a coma.”

“A com—?” The word trailed off as Max’s glassy eyes rolled into the back of his skull, and he collapsed, right there in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I LIED. 
> 
> MWAHAHAHA. 
> 
> My aunt was totally cool with me taking a writing break today, so with my two chapter buffer safely intact, I felt okay updating tonight instead of tomorrow! Apparently I suck at waiting. Also all of your reviews make me SO HAPPY, so HERE HOPE YOU LIKED IT.
> 
> PS: The next few chapters are a lot of conversation and fluff, so take a breather. You made it through the hard part. I mean, for a while, anyway. XD
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	6. Hallucinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max battles his fever while Gwen battles her demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: *Very* brief mention of prior self-harm. It's only like, one sentence, but it is there! Also, analyzing depression and anxiety.

The sight of a fainting ten-year-old boy cleared Gwen’s mind faster than any of David’s therapy talks. She yelped, catching Max before his face smashed into the linoleum. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t shift in her arms. Heat radiated off his body.

“Shit. _Shit_ ,” she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. Why couldn’t she just have _one_ problem to handle? It was like Life was sneering at her, saying, “ _You call yourself an adult? Here. Let’s test that out._ ”

Be an adult. What would they do? She thought back to her mother, who’s biggest crime was marrying an asshole. But that woman was always around when her kids were sick. Comfort food, fluids, baby Tylenol… whatever they needed, Gwen’s mom would have on hand.

Gwen, contrarily, had none of those things. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, choking on another sob as she carried Max back into his bedroom. His sheets were a mess, like he’d been thrashing in the short time she’d been on the phone.

She should have known a fever was a distinct possibility. He’d avoided hypothermia, but his body had worked hard to do it. And now they were on the opposite side of the pendulum swing, where it tried to fend off internal threats instead of external ones.  

Robotically, she stripped Max of his thick pajamas and dressed him in one of David’s lightweight t-shirts. It was like watching herself from afar, mechanically going through the motions. A washcloth to wipe down his face and arms. Ice packs, wrapped in towels, under his armpits and knees. A fan, positioned beside the bed to move the air.

But his cruel words ran through her mind the whole time, and her shoulders shook from stifling the sobs.

Finished, she dropped by his side once more, eyes burning. God, she was so, so tired. And it was approaching noon—she hadn’t seen David in twelve hours. But what could she do? He had a team of doctors looking after him.

Max had no one.

 _Let’s not forget there’s no guarantee David will even wake up_ , that dark voice hissed in her mind.

“Medication,” she said, numbly. For herself or Max, she couldn’t be sure, but she couldn’t sit here and watch him writhe, feverish and sick.

So she staggered back to her feet and stumbled to the kitchen, sifting through the cabinets in a disjointed fashion. Her mind couldn’t pin one task for very long. Twice, she found herself staring blankly at the plates and bowls, wondering what she’d come to look for.

“Get it together, Gwen,” she pinched herself, hard, and the pain seemed to help. Gave her something else to focus on, anyway. But she’d been down _that_ road before, and it didn’t end well. Gwen clenched her eyes shut and slammed the cabinet closed.

 _Medication_.

She found Tylenol above the sink, counting out two tiny white pills for herself and one for Max. After she took hers, she stayed in the kitchen for several minutes, staring out the window over the kitchen table. It was still snowing, but gently now, as if last night’s storm never happened.

But she doubted the image of Max, slumped over that picnic table dusted with snow, would ever leave her mind.

She needed to get a hold of herself. Like it or not, she was responsible for that little demon until David woke up.

… And what if David _didn’t_ wake up, huh? Her new job was starting Monday. Her apartment’s lease wasn’t up until July. Her bank account was empty. The possibilities of how this could go south weighed on her shoulders like rainclouds, drenching her in anxiety.

As if on cue, her stomach growled.

Medicine first. Then food. One step at a time. That’s how she used to get through the bad days, well before Camp and David, and that was exactly how she’d do it now.

She carried the Tylenol and a cup of ice water back into Max’s bedroom. This time, she didn’t shake him. “Max. Max, wake up.”

He groaned, sweat slipping down his face, eyes screwed shut. He mumbled something, and when she leaned closer, she realized his tears were mingling with sweat. “D-David… no. Don’t—you promi—” his words faded into incoherency.

Gwen swallowed past the sadness. One step at a time.

One. Fucking. Step.

Step one: wake him up.

“Max!” she shouted. He gasped, bolting upright in bed, then swayed dangerously and groaned. She stayed in the chair, a safe distance away, but he couldn’t seem to get his bearings. He just gazed around the room, breathing hard. When his glassy eyes settled on her, there was no recognition in his expression.

Until there was. And then he cringed and muttered, “No—No, get ‘way.”

“Fine. Just take this first,” she held out the pill.

He stared at it, and his shoulders started trembling. From the fever? Maybe the ice packs had been overkill. But then he hissed, “Not takin’ that stuff, Mom.”

Gwen flinched like she’d been burned. Mom? Jesus, Max knew exactly who she was twenty minutes ago. They had a whole fucking conversation, one wherein he made her feel like shit, and now he was—what—hallucinating?

Not good. _Very_ not good.

“It’s for the fever,” she said gently, leaning into the persona. Maybe he’d let his mother help him. “Just one pill, and you’ll feel—”

“ _No_ ,” he sunk into the mattress, cheeks flushed, eyes stormy. “I—I see what it does. To you, Dad—no. Don’ make me.”

Gwen blinked at the little pill, dread coiling in her gut. Oh god. This wasn’t about Tylenol. His parents had never struck her as drug addicts, but that explained a lot. The neglect, the careless disregard for their son’s future, the cynicism with which Max regarded the world.

This whole time, she’d been wondering what possessed David to take Max in long enough to give him a bedroom, a chore sheet, homework. Like David knew Max was never going back, and even at 24 years old, he’d accepted the responsibility of being a dad.

It had baffled her.

But… this was a pretty damn good reason.

Max continued to glare at the little white pill, rigid as a board even as tears welled in his eyes. Sometimes she forgot he was just a little kid. He was smarter than a lot of her friends, but—he wasn’t an adult. Not even close.

Something in her fortified, crafting a wall around the demons in her mind. She didn’t have _time_ to wallow in her own self-pity. Right here, right now, this guy needed her more than she needed a mental breakdown.

Gwen tucked the pill into her pocket.

“Okay. Don’t worry, Max. You don’t have to take that.” Her chest twisted when Max sagged in relief, letting his eyes droop. “Just—how about some water instead? It’ll make you feel better.” She offered the cup. It was plastic and pink, and he looked at it with disgust.

“Don’t wanna.”

He needed to drink, but this was clearly a kid pushed to his limits.

What would David do?

Well, she’d seen it over and over at Camp. David had an easygoing attitude about anything his campers did, especially Max. His lighthearted smile, his easy posture, the tone of his voice. Everything was designed to diffuse a situation, whether he realized it or not.

That was probably why Max tolerated him. It was like punching a wall—there was no satisfaction gained through nasty words. And without those words driving David away, Max was able to see how a real adult should act.

She never used to think of David as more mature than she was. Not really. How _blind_ she’d been.

The ice packs and fan would have to be enough for now. Swallowing a sigh, she set the cup of water on the bedside table. “Promise me you’ll drink when you’re thirsty, okay, Max?” He nodded, eyes halfway closed. She tugged the thin sheet over him, keeping the heavy duvet at his feet. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

But he was already asleep.

With nothing else to do, Gwen began foraging for lunch. She hadn’t eaten since before her interview yesterday, and it showed. Her hands were shaky, her head spinning. She pried open the fridge, leaning against the door as she scanned its contents.

There were no scones.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but her jaw dropped. No _scones_? She was in David’s house, right? He adored them so much that, when he realized Gwen had nothing to eat during their bi-monthly Coffee Talks, he started _shipping_ them to her house. When he told her to keep an eye out for them, she laughed.

But he wasn’t joking. For months, they arrived every other week, one day before Coffee Talk, like clockwork. And she ate the damn things because they were decent. _Not_ because of how his face lit up when he saw her nibbling one.

Definitely not.

The scones were the last friendship gift to peter out. She insisted to herself that she didn’t miss them… not until today, when his precious supply had been replaced with practical things like milk, eggs, veggies. All things necessary for raising a strong, healthy child.

Apparently David made a lot of sacrifices. Meanwhile, she was over in Indiana, splurging on stupid shit like booze from a flirtatious bartender. Yet again, her heart clenched. Why hadn’t he told her about Max? She could have helped.

Yeah right. Helped how? She didn’t live in Denver. Her savings could be depleted with one plane ticket, apparently. She was nowhere near responsible enough to help raise a kid.

And yet, everything she’d done last night and today begged to differ.

Gwen blinked. That realization was… kind of nice, actually. For the first time since she started, she felt mildly competent. Maybe she should get a dog when this was all over. Or a fish.

After another quick check on Max, she made a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sliding into the kitchen table. As she ate, she gazed out the window at the gently falling snow. Denver was colder than Carmel, but already, the snowy gloom was making way to bright sunshine. In a day or two, evidence of last night’s storm would be gone, leaving nothing but memories in its wake.

She kind of liked that. The fast-changing weather of the Rockies. Like the default was sunshine, and everything else was just an outlier. It really was the perfect place for someone like David.

Maybe she should have tried it too, after college, instead of settling closer to her mother, in backwater Indiana. Job market was probably better here.

Her eyes drifted to the table, to the pile of mail sitting in plain view. Nothing there should have been remarkable, barely worth her attention, except that the return address for the top envelope stood out. She frowned, plucking the letter from the pile, squinting at the scribbled writing.

 

CAMERON CAMPBELL

123 NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS

NOWHERE, USA

 

Campbell? What the hell was he doing, sending David letters nine months after Camp ended? Her last paycheck had finally moseyed into her mailbox back in October, right before she was about to send some very threatening emails to the boss in question. Maybe David’s took even longer?

It wouldn't surprise her. Campbell was such an asshole. That was one saving grace from this; she could submit a formal resignation after she started with the Zionsville Times Sentinel. The very thought made her lips curl into a smile.

She checked her phone, opening the calendar.

Of course, that assumed she could leave in time for work Monday morning. Gwen swallowed hard, staring at today’s little red dot. Two full days—the absolute latest she could return to Indiana. Which meant she had about twenty-four hours to make a decision.

God, David better wake up soon.

Feeling sick, she pushed the half-eaten plate of eggs away and padded back into the bedroom to check on Max.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, you guys, I'm getting all warm and fuzzy reading your reviews. <3 <3 Sorry the last few chapters were dark and emotional. Gwen turns a corner in this one. Hopefully things will get better for our little cinnamon roll family. :P 
> 
> I am really glad I was able to explore Gwen's depression and anxiety in this one, though. Myself and a lot of friends have suffered from that--like most people these days--and I think the best thing you can do is discover your self-care plan: the steps that help you move forward and think logically, rather than emotionally, little by little. And remember, if you need extra help, it's always A-OK to call your friends and family! <3 
> 
> On another note, wahoo! The plot is back! Kind of. XD See you folks tomorrow!!
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	7. Dinnertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen makes Max dinner.

The rest of the day passed in a dazed blur. She spent most of it in that hard kitchen chair, feet propped up at the end of Max’s bed, watching TV shows on her cell phone. She needed to sleep, _really_ sleep, but the idea of leaving this kid alone for more than a few minutes at a time petrified her.

Luckily, _Werewolves in Los Angeles_ didn’t require much mental capacity.

Max slept all day, drifting in and out of nightmares. She was starting to see why he loved that ratty teddy bear. Since he clearly didn’t like Gwen touching him, whenever they’d get bad, she would nudge its ratty fluff closer to his flushed face. And suddenly Max was half his age, clinging to it like a lifeline in a writhing sea.

And damn it if his expression wouldn’t smooth a few moments later.

Seeing that made her feel bad for making fun of Max, all those months ago. And the teddy bear—Mr. Honeykins? Something like that—wasn’t _so_ disgusting anymore. David had clearly washed it, then hand-stitched its rips and wounds with the precision of a true outdoorsman. The thought of him hunched over the bear, needle in hand, while Max waited anxiously made her chest warm.

That was how a kid _should_ be treated.

If David had been half as good a friend, he and Gwen wouldn’t have had any problems.

Around 9pm, she left Max to make dinner. She wasn’t terribly hungry, despite only eating a few bites of scrambled eggs this morning, but Max was probably starving.

David certainly had all the fixings for a kid’s meal. Gwen thought about making something easy—frozen chicken nuggets or mac and cheese or something—but stumbled on a can of chicken noodle soup instead. A smile tilted her lips. _Nothing like kooke-a-noodle soup when you’re sick,_ her mother used to say, back when Gwen was a kid herself and thought that was a hilarious way to say “chicken noodle.”

She poured it into a saucepan and flicked on the stove, then perused the fridge for wine or a beer or something. Not that she was expecting to find anything, considering David didn’t drink, but maybe he stocked some just in case.

No luck in the fridge. The soup was barely simmering, so she ducked into the pantry. She could _seriously_ use a glass of… literally anything alcoholic. And there, way back behind the flour and rice, she found a dusty bottle of cabernet with a pink sticky note on it.

 _For Gwen_.

She froze, rereading David’s meticulous script while her mind worked to determine the meaning of this.

David kept a bottle of wine for her. Even after their fight, after he packed all his stuff and switched apartments, after he brought in Max, after Gwen had written him off “for good,” he still deemed this necessary to store.

Just in case.

“Oh, god,” she whispered, her heart breaking.

It was such a _David_ thing to do.

“Soup’s burning,” a young voice snapped.

Max. She spun, wine bottle in hand, and promptly smashed her head into the doorframe.  “Shit,” she muttered, pressing her free palm against the sharp ache. It dulled the pain, but the motion kickstarted her good old, throbbing headache. Lovely.

Max was standing a few feet away, a light blanket wrapped around his shoulders, curly hair ruffled from sleep. His eyes weren’t so glassy now, his breathing far more even. Thank _god_. One day of solid rest and TLC—well, C—and he’d started to recover.

His attitude, however, had not.

“You just gonna stand there?” He shoved a thumb at the soup. 

She scurried into action, abandoning the wine bottle for the boiling saucepan. David’s sticky note fluttered to the floor, but she didn’t notice until Max plucked it off the linoleum. He scanned it, mouth downturned.

“It’s a bottle of wine,” Gwen said as she moved the saucepan off the stove, feeling obligated to explain. Almost defensive, after what Max said hours ago.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he replied, sticking the pink note on her jeans. She bared her teeth and fetched it, but instead of throwing it away, she tucked it carefully into her pocket. Her fingers brushed against Max’s unused Tylenol, but she didn’t dare pull the pill out. Not yet.

Instead, she matched his tone: “Looks like you’re feeling better.”

Max scoffed, sliding into one of the kitchen table’s chairs like it was as normal as breathing, waiting for an adult to make his dinner. And the fact that he seemed to accept Gwen in that role made her… unusually happy.

Which was unnerving. She cleared her throat and asked, “Do you still have a fever?”

His cheeks looked flushed, but without getting close, feeling his forehead, she couldn’t be sure. And she definitely wasn’t trying _that_ again.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists. It was kind of adorable.

“No. I’m fine.”

“The same way you were ‘fine’ after Nurf gave you that black eye? Or _actually_ fine?” She stirred the boiling liquid. It smelled pretty good, but David only had one can and Max needed it more. When she was sure the soup wouldn’t scald him, she poured it into a bowl and set it on the table. He took the proffered spoon without so much as a thank-you.

“Actually fine,” he said, looking down his nose at her. How that was possible when he was half her height and sitting, she’d never know. But he pulled it off. “And I’d like to see _you_ get a black eye without crying.”

“I probably couldn’t.”

“I bet you could—oh. Yeah. Damn right.” He sniffed and blew on his spoonful of soup, then took a contemplative bite. “’S burnt,” he said, haughtily, mouth full.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Soup doesn’t burn, you little cretin.”

“And somehow, you managed it,” he shot back.

Wine. She needed wine. Maybe that was why David kept this bottle: in case she visited when Max was in one of his moods. She retrieved a glass, then filled a second with water as an afterthought. Max made a face when she set it in front of him.

“David usually gives me coke—”

“Tough shit. Today you get water.”

He made a crude gesture at her, but took a sip from the glass when he thought she wasn’t looking. By the expression that screwed his face, it might as well have been sewage water. Good. He deserved that.

Satisfied, Gwen fished in David’s drawers for a corkscrew. She found one buried in the back of the junk drawer and wondered if he kept that around for her, too. A soft smile tilted her lips as she uncorked the wine bottle with a _pop_.

Max ate in silence for a few minutes. She joined him across the table with her glass of wine. He looked sourly at it, then asked, “You’re just gonna drink without eating?”

“Been a long day,” she said, taking a sip. It was a cheap cabernet, but the full-bodied taste relaxed her more than anything in the last twenty-four hours. When she felt mentally fortified, her eyes dropped to the boy across the table. “Okay, Max. Let’s talk about last night.”

“No, let’s talk about David.”

Ugh. Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t deny him that, and he knew it. She shouldn’t have told him about the coma so abrasively, when he was _so_ sick. She should have lied. Too late now. “Look, there’s not much to say. David’s in the hospital. The doctors called me—”

“Why?”

“What?”

Max stared at her levelly, green eyes narrowed. “Why would they call you?”

Did he even _remember_ what he said to her this morning? Maybe not, considering how feverish he’d been. But before her heart could break, before they could rehash the whole “you’re not friends” conversation, her eyes dropped to the bottle of wine.

 _Her_ bottle of wine.

“Because I’m David’s emergency contact.” She drank again, and the cab warmed her all the way down. Almost as good as a hug from the man himself. This time, she didn’t feel attacked by Max’s tone. They were just two people trying to survive, best they could. “The hospital called, and I jumped on a plane.”

“How kind of you.” His sarcasm was palpable.

Gwen narrowed her eyes, although her voice remained level. “Max, this fucking sucks. Okay? This wasn’t how any of us wanted to spend our weekend.”

Max tched, but didn’t interrupt.

“Listen. Friendships drift, sometimes. But just because I was angry at him doesn’t mean I stopped caring. I’m just as worried as you are.”

Max dug his spoon into the soup. “You’re wrong. I don’t give two shits about David.”

She almost reamed into him. Snapped at him not to lie, that David clearly loved him, cherished him, and he should feel the same.

But his lips were trembling, and tears welled in his eyes, dripping into his soup. “I don’t—I don’t care about that stupid fuck.”

Oh, no. “Max,” she said, softly, brows knitting together. “He’ll be fine. He’s tougher than—”

“Jesus Christ, Gwen, I’m not five,” he slammed his hands onto the table. She flinched, and wine sloshed out of her cup, dripping down her arm. Max’s whole body shook. “Stop sugarcoating it. Stop protecting me. It’s not like people just fall into comas for no fucking reason. So what _happened_?”

She wiped her hand on her jeans, leaving a red smear. Somehow, it reminded her of blood, which made this a lot more real. Shit, this should have been easier, coaching a ten-year-old through the truth.

But it wasn’t.

It took everything in her power to admit, “David was attacked. Stabbed in an alley on the way home from work.” She didn’t mention the drug use. By the way Max’s face crumpled, he couldn’t handle another shock. Not today.

He didn’t speak for a long, long time after that. The words hung like bullets, frozen between them. One wrong move, and Max might shatter.

Gwen swallowed. “But—But it’s fine. They moved him out of Critical Care. They’re optimistic.”

“I want to see him,” Max said, quietly.

“Okay,” she replied, assuming David’s easygoing attitude. “Sure. We can do that.” How, she had no clue. Her bank account was maxed out, and she didn’t have credit cards. An Uber ride there and back was out of the question.

But that wasn’t Max’s problem.

“Okay,” he pushed his bowl away, swiping his eyes. “I’m done.” After a moment’s consideration, he took the cup of water, angling towards his room. 

Gwen tugged the Tylenol out of her pocket. “Wait, Max.” He stopped at the end of the galley kitchen, and she pushed to her feet. “You’re still sick, and they might not let you into his hospital room like that. Can you take this pill for me? It’s Tylenol. It’ll lower your fever.”

He shoulders tensed under the thin blanket. “A painkiller? I don’t want to.”

Damn. She’d been hoping for a better reaction when he wasn’t hallucinating, but his parents seemed to have ruined more than his attitude. She swallowed, then put the pill on the kitchen counter. “It’s okay. I’m not going to force you. I just thought it might help.”

His gaze flicked between her and the pill. “If I take it… then I can see David sooner?”

“Once your fever’s gone, we’ll go. Visiting hours be damned,” she replied.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he snatched the pill and choked it down with half the glass of water. It was pretty painful to watch, like he knew the mechanics of swallowing medicine, but never tried it himself.

Jesus, she hated Max’s parents. Good for nothing assholes.

He thrust the empty cup at her. It took her a moment to realize he needed her to refill it, considering he could barely see over the counter. She rolled her eyes, but followed the unspoken order. When she handed it back, he scowled.

“Tomorrow morning. You promised.” His voice was rough, although whether that was from the pill, or emotion, she didn’t know.

She offered the Camp Campbell salute, forcing a grin onto her lips.

Max rolled his eyes and muttered, “Jesus, there’s two of them,” before stomping back into his bedroom.

And for that brief moment, Gwen allowed herself a soft exhale, revisiting her glass of wine. Tomorrow was a new day. Max was safe, David was alive, and for the first time in ages, she felt like she had a handle on the situation.

Well, all but one aspect of it.

With a groan, she plucked her cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number.

“Hey, Mom. It’s me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my sister and beta, Seaver, who said after reading this, and I quote, "I think you were born to write Max. He's like all your take-no-shit, snarky heroines, except you don't have to restrain yourself." 
> 
> So that should give you an idea of what kind of original stuff I'm writing amidst this fanfiction. :P But she's totally right; this story is so far from my YA stuff, it's like a breath of fresh air. I'm *loving* it. On another note, Seaver writes Yuri!!! on Ice stuff! So if you're into that fandom, you should check her out: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaver
> 
> She's also behind the Nendors on Ice tumblr. Because we all have our creative achilles heels. :P https://theseaver.tumblr.com/
> 
> \--------------
> 
> ALSO, IMPORTANT PSA: 
> 
> You guys ROCK. 
> 
> I don't think this has ever happened to me before, but your comments now outnumber the story kudos. WOW. I'm so fucking lucky to have you all reading my stuff. THANK YOU!! <3 
> 
> THAT CONCLUDES THE PSA. See you folks tomorrow! :D
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	8. Parking Lot Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen and Max finally go to the hospital... but a phone call threatens to destroy their tentative arrangement.

The next day dawned bright and early. Gwen slept—tossing and turning—on David’s lumpy, well-loved couch, which was really too short to be restful. But with Max not outright unconscious anymore, there was no way she’d spend another night in that awful chair. Besides, something told her he wouldn’t appreciate some random adult staring while he slept.

But it ended up not mattering, because just as the first crease of light filtered through the blinds, Max shook her awake.

“Get up, lazybones.”

She groaned, blinking past the sleep in her eyes. Her whole body felt weighted, like she was clawing through a heavy blanket just to sit upright. “Max? What—”

He thrust a thermometer into her hands. It took several seconds to register the tiny number on the display: 98.4 degrees. Max stood inches away, dressed and ready to walk out the door.

“You promised,” he said, shoving his hands into his hoodie’s pocket.

She glanced at the blinds, at the rising sun peeking through them. God, she was tired. “Visiting hours be damned” had seemed so easy last night, but now, in the cold light of morning, she wondered how they’d get past the receptionist before 8am.

But when she looked back at Max, his chin was jutted out defiantly, green eyes sparking against her protests. “If you say no, I’m just going by myself.”

 She groaned. “Okay, fine. _Fine_. Jesus.” With a muttered curse, she pushed off the couch, stretched her aching limbs, and padded into David’s bathroom. She emerged ten minutes later, still wearing the same clothes she’d had yesterday and the day before.

Much to Max’s distaste. “Don’t you have anything different? You smell like a dumpster.”

“You’re one to talk,” she huffed. He rolled his eyes, but she wasn’t finished. “I didn’t have time to pack a suitcase after the hospital called, you know. Planes don’t exactly wait for people.”

“Oh.” His eyes dropped to the ground, almost like he regretted saying anything at all. Which made Gwen kind of smug. _See,_ she thought, _I cared enough about David to leave everything behind with barely any notice. Not friends, my ass._

But of course, she didn’t dare say that.

Instead, she strolled past him, tapping on her cell. The Uber was ordered before she reached the front door. Although her cheeks burned at the fact that her clothes smelled, she slipped on her coat as if it didn’t bother her one bit.

There wasn’t much she could do about it anyway. The money her mother loaned her would be going towards transportation and food, not menial things like new outfits. Her step-father was _not_ happy about the arrangement.

One more thing to pay off when she started her new job.

 _If_ she started her new job.

Max followed her, but she stopped him short at the door. “Ah, no, we’re not doing this again. Where’s your jacket?”

“I’m wearing it,” he snorted, gesturing at his hoodie.

“Your _real_ jacket, Max. I know David wouldn’t let you stroll around in Colorado without a winter coat. Especially not after being sick.”

“Jesus, it’s probably back to sixty degrees already. That’s how Denver works.”

She set her jaw and stared down at him, not budging. And after a few minutes ticked by, he heaved a long-suffering sigh and stomped into his bedroom. When he emerged, it was with a simple black coat. It was too long on him, definitely second-hand, but it would do the job.

“Happy, you goddamn harpy?”

“Happier than an egg in a frying pan,” she rolled her eyes and let him slide past. As expected, it was still cold, although the sun was shining bright and it promised to be a nice day. The Uber was parked outside, and she waved so he wouldn’t drive off. “Hurry up. That’s our ride.”

They hustled into the car, and the Uber driver greeted them with an exuberant hello. Max’s cheeks were pink from the temperature, and maybe the final vestiges of his fever, and he glared at the driver until the man went silent. Gwen pinched her brows together apologetically, but she was secretly happy they didn’t have to make small-talk so early in the morning.

David always used to give her a cup of coffee and exactly thirty minutes to wake up, back at Camp. Nothing annoyed her more than _morning people_.

She missed those days, sometimes.

The hospital wasn’t far, which seemed to sour Max’s mood even more. When the driver pulled away, leaving them standing in the shadow of the hospital just like Gwen had a day ago, he glanced around and muttered, “Jesus, we’re right around the corner.”

“They probably took him to the nearest hospital,” she replied.

He hunched in his jacket, expression dark. “I told that idiot he shouldn’t be walking home after work.”

It was kind of ironic, a bus driver without a car. But David's station wagon was remarkably old to begin with; it'd just take one bad break to put it out of commission. It wasn't like David had a lot of spare change, either. Back at Camp, he’d said it himself: “backbreaking work with practically no pay.” His smile had been so cheery, but for the months he was away from Camp Campbell, his bank account probably suffered.

Gwen’s certainly did.

“He probably didn’t have an alternative. Cars are expensive.”

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So are kids.”

Oh, hell no. It was the way he said it, so angry and frustrated, that had her kneeling to his level, right there in the parking lot. Her voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Max. This is not your fault. Okay?”

He scuffed his shoe, staring at the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m serious. David made a choice, taking you in. An adult choice, where he considered the realities of caring for a child, the costs and responsibilities and hardships, and still decided _you were worth it_. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I understand plenty. Like the fact that David’s a fucking moron,” Max’s voice was hard, but his eyes rimmed with tears. “If my own parents didn’t give a shit, why should he?”

 Gwen’s heart twisted for him. The words slipped out before she could censor them, shoved past gritted teeth. “Because your parents are goddamn assholes.”

A couple walking past startled, glancing at them in shock. She glared until they hurried past, but when she turned back to the ten-year-old, Max’s jaw had dropped. Oh, shit. She’d overstepped a line. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to backtrack.

“Ah, not that they aren’t—”

Then Max burst out laughing. His eyes were still wet, but he laughed so hard he doubled over. “Jesus, Gwen, tell me what you really think.”

It was the first time she’d seen him happy, smirking like they were once again part of some secret club. David bonded as a father-figure, but Max and Gwen shared the same humor, and that wasn’t nothing.

She laughed too, deadpan. “Trust me, kid, even your ears couldn’t handle _half_ of what I called your parents. David threatened to fire me if I repeated some of them.”

Max grinned. “Huh. We should compare notes.”

“Sorry. Gotta be sixteen to—”

Her words were cut off by a rap song chiming from her pocket. She made a face, stood, and fished out her cell phone. But it wasn’t the hospital; the area code was from Indiana. From Carmel. She swallowed, glanced at Max, then answered, “Hello?”

“ _Ms. Stephani? This is Evans, with the Zionsville Times Sentinel._ ”

Her new boss. The blood drained from her face, and she angled away from Max, lowering her voice. “Oh, right! Hi. Is—is everything okay?”

“ _Oh, yes_ ,” he breezed past her concern. “ _I forgot to tell you. We need you to review the newspaper before you arrive on Monday. I want to make sure you’ve got some familiarity with the columns and setup. You’ll be starting in op-ed, but it would be a good idea to consider what you might be interested in writing further in your career_.”

In her career. He said it so casually, but to her, it was life changing. Her real, adult job. Full-time, with benefits and a salary multiple times higher than Campbell’s pathetic pay. Gwen’s heart fluttered at the thought.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely. Anything you need.”

“ _Good. Enjoy your Saturday._ ” He hung up.

Before Gwen could say anything, Max narrowed his eyes. “Monday, huh? And here I thought you were staying a while.”

Jesus, was he a fucking bat, to hear that conversation? She stiffened, defenses raising. “I am staying a while.”

“Are you?”

She waffled under his glare. “I don’t—Yes! Probably. I have a new job starting Monday, but I’m sure they’ll let me push the start date back a week—”

“No, no. We wouldn’t want to interfere with your _new job_ ,” he hissed the words. His breath came in puffs of white, but he didn’t seem to notice the chill. “Not like there’s a little kid here without any kind of supervision. Or a so-called ‘friend’ lying in the hospital.”

She felt faint. “Max, that’s not fair.”

“Oh, sure, let’s talk about _fair_.”

Something in her snapped.

“Fine. You want to know what’s unfair?” she silenced him with her sudden, venomous tone. “A stupid, selfish kid who _ran away in a snowstorm_ just to prove some kind of twisted point. You could have _died_ , Max. How the hell do you think David would feel if he woke up to find you’d run away and frozen to death?”

 Max clenched his teeth, but Gwen wasn’t done. She knew she was being irrational, irritable, but she was hungry and tired and so beyond done with his crap. “Listen. I dropped _everything_ to help David. But I don’t live here. So don’t you dare give me shit for having a life in Indiana.”

“If you love it so much, then fucking go home,” Max yelled, cheeks darkening with anger. More people around them were stopping to stare, but she couldn’t give two shits about them.  

“Maybe I will,” she shouted back.

“Ma’am, is there a problem?” a security officer strolled towards them, gaze dark and annoyed. He looked between them, but luckily Max’s skin tone was similar enough to Gwen’s that her next words were easily bought.

“We’re fine. My little brother’s just being a shi—ah, he’s distraught, I mean.”

Max fell eerily silent in the face of the man’s authoritative uniform. But he was still trembling in anger, simmering at Gwen’s knees.

The man raised his eyebrows at Gwen’s slip of the tongue, but ultimately said, “Watch your language. This is a hospital.” With a curt shake of his head, he strolled away.

Gwen stared after the guard, gaping at his choice of words. At the memories they drudged up. One glance at Max’s expression proved he was thinking the same thing. It was almost like David was speaking through that man, calming them both before they said something they’d regret.

“Let’s just… go inside,” she said after a moment.

“Fine,” Max muttered. “Lead the way.”

She did, but anxiety coiled like a spring in her gut. Because even though this argument was over, the problem wasn’t close to being resolved. One way or another, she’d have to make a decision about her old responsibilities in Indiana… and the new ones in Colorado.

And she had a sinking feeling she wouldn’t like the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDAAAATE. I work as a flight attendant, and DUDE reroutes SUCK. Apparently I'm sleeping in Chicago tonight instead of Kansas City. Fun times. >.>
> 
> Anyway, YAY for more chapters!! :D Another update tomorrow!
> 
> On another, totally unrelated note, OMFG I ordered a David mug to drink my coffee in while I wrote this fucking fanfic, and IT ARRIVED ALREADY BROKEN and I'm SO PISSED. AND SAD. But mostly pissed. That mug was going to be my first ever AO3 profile pic. T.T Stay tuned for more drama here...
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	9. The Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max sees David for the first time in days... and learns something Gwen was trying to keep a secret.

David’s new room was higher up, on a much busier floor. The elevator doors dinged open to bustling nurses, shouted conversations, and stressed family members. Although they hadn’t said two words to each other since the parking lot, Max pressed against Gwen’s legs, sticking abnormally close as she led him down the hall.

Room 709 was near the elevator, but just approaching the door gave Gwen horrible flashbacks to the night of. Seeing David pale, barely breathing, surviving off machines. It made her sick, even now, and she was about to subject a _ten-year-old_ to that.

Before Max could open the door, she grabbed his arm. He wrenched away, glaring at her, but the pained expression on her face made him pause.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She hesitated. “Ah, Max, there’s something I should warn you about. David can’t—he can’t breathe on his own. They gave him a tube—”

“I told you, I’m not five,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes. “I know what hospitals do when someone can’t breathe. I’ve seen it before.”

When he’d seen someone using a breathing tube, she couldn’t fathom, but she straightened and said, quietly, “Just be prepared.” Then she opened the door for him.

The room was dark and quiet, but David was sharing it with an elderly woman. Max glanced at her in disdain, snoring softly on her bed, then stepped moved past the curtain dividing the space. Gwen trailed behind. She didn’t want to see David again. Not like last time. Her heart twisted into knots, and she rubbed at the headache pounding dully between her eyes.

As such, she didn’t see what Max saw.

“Thought you said he had a tube?” he said, curtly, but she didn’t miss the underlying layer of relief.

“What?”

But Max was right. David was lying in bed, but he wasn’t hooked up to nearly as many machines now. His face was peaceful, nose and mouth clouding the simple breathing mask with every exhale. Even his color seemed better, merely pale instead of ghostly.

Gwen sagged against the bed. “Oh, thank god.” Max glanced sharply at her, and she forced a smile. “See? I told you he was getting better.”

“Convincing,” he drawled, but a smile tilted his lips regardless. Then, without regard for their surroundings or the wires and IV snaking from David’s bed, Max hopped onto the mattress. Before Gwen could react, he lightly slapped David’s cheek. “Come on, Davey. Wake up. Time to go home.”

Oh god. Gwen was going to kill the little monster. Quick as a heartbeat, she snatched him off the bed, touching be damned. He thrashed in her hold, but she deposited him immediately on the ground, keeping her voice low and fierce. “ _Max._ I told you, he’s in a coma. That’s not going to—”

And then David groaned.

Max smirked. “You were saying?”

But she wasn’t listening to him anymore. She spun on her heels, swallowing past the lump rising in her throat. “David? Are—Are you awake?”

Despite their stares, he remained still. Gwen’s heart fell. Just a fluke. It had barely been thirty-six hours since that nurse left those voicemails. Barely twenty-four since he was moved from the Critical Care unit.

Even David couldn’t recover from this kind of trauma in mere days.

Max realized it the same time she did. His face crumpled, and he gripped the white sheets, inches from David’s arm. “H-Hey. Wake up.”

David didn’t move.

Gwen closed her eyes, drew a deep breath through her nose before sinking into the chair beside David’s bed. “He’s getting there, Max. It just… it takes time.” When the boy didn’t reply, Gwen leaned closer, pushing a strand of David’s sweat-slicked hair out of his closed eyes. “I heard coma patients can hear what you say to them, though. I bet he’d be excited to know you’re here.”

“David’s always excited about something,” Max mumbled.

A moment of silence ticked by before Gwen realized he wasn’t going to say anything with her hovering. She pushed to her feet and said, “I’m, ah, going to find a nurse. Get an update on his condition. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Whatever.” But Max slid into her vacated seat, and when she walked away, she didn’t miss his tiny fingers curling around David’s.

Gwen sighed, but dutifully left. The nurse’s station was nearby, so that was her first stop. A cheery young woman closed her logbook when Gwen neared, plastering a bright smile on her face. “Hi, there. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m here for David Forrester. Room, um, room 709. Just—hoping for an update. Josie is his nurse. Doctor Smith was the surgeon. If that helps.”

The nurse plucked a file from the cabinet at her side. “Hmm. Let’s see. Well, Josie works in Critical Care, so Mr. Forrester’s been moved under Jake’s supervision. He works evenings, though, so he’ll be back later today. I’m picking up the slack until then. Lila Mitchells.” She held out a hand, which Gwen shook on autopilot.

Meanwhile, her head spun. “Why so many nurses?”

“Well, we need to sleep too,” came the chirped reply.

Sleep sounded excellent. Gwen was mildly jealous of this _Jake_ , slumbering the morning away. But she cleared her throat and peered over the desk at David’s file. “I just wanted to know when you guys removed the breathing tube.”

“Oh,” Lila beamed. “We try not to keep them intubated unless it’s absolutely necessary. David was breathing fine last night, so we transitioned him into the oxygen mask. Doctor Smith is fairly confident he’ll be out of the coma in a day or two.”

“So soon?” Gwen grinned, hope once again fluttering in her chest. A day or two. There was an end in sight. He’d come back from the hospital, she’d go back to Indiana, and her job wouldn’t need to suffer. She’d miss the first few days, but surely Evans would understand.

Lila nodded, flipping the file around to show her. “He’s been responsive. And once the methamphetamines clear their system, overdose patients usually recover faste—”

“ _Overdose_?” A voice snarled, and Gwen stiffened.

Oh  _shit_.

“Max? Why, uh, why aren’t you with David?”

The boy looked furious, crossing his arms to hide his shaking hands. “He’s not doing anything, so I left. What the hell, Gwen? You didn’t want to tell me he’s on fucking drugs, so you just _lied_ and said he got stabbed? Jesus. You’re more screwed up than me!”

“He _did_ get stabbed,” she ground out, lowering her voice to try and mediate his anger. “And it was one overdose. There’s no evidence he’s ‘on drugs.’”

Another lie. Gwen was just swimming in them these days.

“Jeeesus,” Max repeated, curling his hands in his hair. “And here I was feeling _sorry_ for the sad fuck. But if he’s doing meth, he deserves this!”

Lila cleared her throat, trying to regain control of the conversation, but neither of them were paying much attention. Like back in the parking lot, except this time there wasn’t a security guard to intervene. People in the hallways were starting to stare, to whisper, and a nearby nurse picked up the phone.

Gwen barely noticed. She was too busy growling, “Take that back.”

Max met her gaze, expression cold and cruel. “Why the fuck should I? If I wanted to see adults getting shitfaced, I’d have stayed in Oregon!”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Lila’s voice cut through their conversation like a machete. Gone was her pretty smile, her bright eyes. Now she was stone-like, professional, as she closed David’s file.

Gwen spun from Max, gaze pleading. “No, please. I’m sorry. This is David’s, ah, adopted son. He’s just grieving—”

“For Christ’s sake, Gwen, no one gives a shit. Let’s just go. It’s not like David needs our help recovering from his _addiction_ ,” Max rolled his eyes, cheeks dark with anger as he stormed back towards the elevator without so much as a glance at David’s room.

Lila pursed her lips, but Gwen knew where her responsibilities lied. She cursed and followed Max, and the elevator doors closed just as a troop of security guards stomped past.

Well, at least they’d averted one crisis.

Max simmered beside her, fury radiating off of him in waves. Gwen chewed on her lower lip, trying to solve this.

What would David do?

She—she didn’t know. She never fathomed David would do drugs, but clearly that was wrong. Maybe there were a lot of things she didn’t know about David.

So, okay. What would _Gwen_ do? Other than screaming, that was.

Well, there was one place she never dared to raise her voice, growing up. It probably wouldn’t work, but they didn’t have a car to hide in, and she wasn’t looking forward to another argument in the freezing parking lot.

So when the doors dinged open, she didn’t wait for him. She just strode left, following the signs to the hospital’s chapel.

As she hoped, Max followed. Wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, without Gwen. She didn’t look back, his shadow ghosting after her as she strode through the hallways. But even he stopped short when she pushed open the chapel door.

“I’m not going in there,” he grumbled.

“Suit yourself,” she replied, and left him standing alone in the hall.

The chapel was blissfully empty, tinier than she expected for a hospital so large. There were six short pews arranged in two aisles, facing a wooden table adorned with unlit candles. There was a speaking podium pushed against the wall, and a tapestry of the changing seasons behind it. Simple… and yet, in that moment, it was everything she needed. 

Gwen wasn’t religious, not anymore, but some things had been instilled in her since she was a kid. She sunk into the front pew, clasping her hands together. Although she didn’t pray, something about the familiar motion made her calmer, more centered.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, eyes closed, focusing on her breathing. But eventually, the door opened again. Soft footsteps padded to the back pew. A tiny huff as Max got comfortable.

Gwen didn’t acknowledge him. She just waited, letting the serenity of the chapel settle into his bones, calm his anger.

And by a miracle of miracles, it worked.

“It doesn’t make sense.” His voice was soft, begrudging. But he didn’t curse, and he didn’t shout. And that was something Gwen could work with.

“What doesn’t?”

He looked awkward, sitting on the bench in the back of the chapel. Like he was trying to make himself as small and irrelevant as possible, hands stuffed in his jacket pocket, blue hoodie drawn over his curly hair.

His eyes darted to the tapestries behind Gwen, to the table with candles, as if there was someone hiding, eavesdropping. But they were alone. “Meth. David—David doesn’t do drugs. He broke his arm three months ago, and they gave him painkillers, and he… um, they didn’t sit well. He doesn’t even like Tylenol in the house, after that.”

Wait. She frowned. “What kind of painkillers? Do you know?”

Max shrugged. “Oxycodone, I think?”

“An opioid?” Gwen’s eyes widened.

“I guess. They gave him a few varieties to see if any would sit better, except none did. He ended up just whimpering in pain for days. It was pretty pathetic.” His green eyes dropped to the ground. “That’s what I’m saying. It doesn’t make—”

“Hang on,” Gwen pushed to her feet, staggering to his pew. He scooted over as she sank beside him, massaging her temples. “Hang _on_. So the opioid use was three months ago, for a broken arm?”

Max squinted at her. “Yeah. Why? What aren’t you telling me?”

Well, cat’s out of the bag now. Gwen gritted her teeth. “They did a hair follicle test. David _doesn’t_ have a history of drugs. He just had two occurrences: opioids three or four months ago, and… Thursday night.” Gwen couldn’t believe it. “I thought, maybe, there was use before that test. But if that first time was for painkillers, then—”

“Thursday was an isolated incident,” Max’s brows knit together, lips pursed in anger. “Except David promised me he’d never do drugs. Not… not after my parents.” His gaze darkened. “So he’s still an asshole.”

Gwen felt cold. “David doesn't break promises."

"Everyone breaks promises."

"No, you don't understand, Max," Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose. "One time, David promised to pick me up the new release of my favorite series when he went into town. But his car broke down that morning, so instead of telling me 'sorry' like any  _normal_ human, he  _walked_ all the way to Sleepy Peak.”

Max's eyebrows shot up. He knew firsthand how long that walk was. It had taken David the better part of the day, and he'd stumbled into Camp bright red and sweaty and strangely triumphant.

“Then—”

“He didn’t overdose. Someone drugged him,” Gwen said.

Max’s jaw dropped, and right there in the chapel, he whispered, “Jesus _Christ_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LOOK THE PLOT. I almost forgot it existed for a bit there. XD 
> 
> YOU GUYS ROCK THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS. :D :D Suuuuper sorry for the continuous late updates; work is kicking my butt this week. >.>
> 
> Can you believe when I plotted this out, I wrote in my notes section, "Four chapters, max." Four chapters. HA. HAHAHA. *sigh*
> 
> Aaaaanyway, more tomorrow!!
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	10. Taking Care of Gwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen has been going nonstop, and Max finally notices. Time to turn the tables.

Considering their blowout fight, Gwen doubted it would be a good idea to swing back upstairs so soon. Lila and her horde of security guards were probably on high alert, hunting for them. They’d visit again when Jake and the evening shift arrived… the shift that didn’t know them as loud and disruptive.

So home they went.

Deep bags had formed under Max’s eyes, worse than usual. As they stepped into David’s apartment, Gwen took one look at him and said, “Okay, bedtime. You’re still sick, even if your fever is gone.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You think I’m going to sleep after _that_?”

“Damn right I do,” she replied, crossing her arms. Max glanced at his bedroom, at his waiting bed, and scowled.

“Tough shit. I’m hungry.”

Ugh. It _was_ almost noon. They’d been awake since 6:30am without so much as a candy bar keeping them going. Gwen’s stomach grumbled at the thought, and Max smirked. “Sounds like I’m not the only one.”

“Okay, fine,” she growled, jabbing a finger at the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll make eggs.”

“Ugh, really? I want pancakes.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he added, “ _David_ always makes pancakes on Saturday morning.”

Of course. Of fucking course they had a routine. Gwen threw up her hands and snapped, “Fine. But after this, you’re going straight to bed. No arguments.”

“Oh, Gwen. I live for arguments,” Max replied, smirking as he strolled to the kitchen table and slid into his chair. He drummed his fingers against the wood while she gathered supplies. The sound was nothing short of irritating, and after a moment, she glared at him.

“Do you mind?”

“Nope. You got any coffee?”

She was too tired for this shit. Her smile was nothing short of malicious. “Oh, Max. You're far too young for that. How about a nice, crisp glass of milk—”

“Ugh,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

She chuckled darkly and got busy making the batter. But after her breakfast yesterday, there was only one egg left, enough for just half a batch. Her stomach cramped, but this would barely make three full-sized pancakes. Her eyes drifted to Max, who was plucking the leaves off the ficus beside the kitchen table.

Well... the kid needed it more. Besides, there were veggies in the fridge.

Her time in college had left her weirdly proficient in pancake-making, so she made quick work of the batter. Stomach grumbling, she piled the gorgeous brown pancakes onto a plate and set them in front of the waiting boy.

He opened his mouth, but she slammed a bottle of syrup onto the table next. He regarded it with disdain.

“ _David_ always heats the—”

“Oh, Jesus,” she snapped, but shoved the bottle into the microwave. When she presented it to him, he grinned and poured half the bottle over his pancakes. Her eyes narrowed; she _highly_ doubted David, the half-Canadian, would ever allow syrup use like that.

Little bastard was playing her like a fiddle, wasn’t he?

She skimmed the fridge for something else, but the veggies she’d seen earlier turned out to just be celery. Awesome. With no other options, she pulled a stalk and began munching on it. The crisp taste just made her stomach growl more.

Max glanced her way. After a moment’s consideration, his brows knitted together. “Is that all you’re eating?”

“Not many other options.”

His eyes dropped to the pancakes. With a frustrated huff, he cut them in half and scooted the untouched side towards her. “Damn it, fine. You sounds pathetic. Take these.”

The pancake halves were swimming in syrup now, probably soggy and gross. She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Gee, thanks.” But the thought was sweet, so she smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll go to the store once you’re in bed.”

Now he looked at her suspiciously. “You didn’t eat last night either.”

“Wine sustains me,” she joked.

He wasn’t having it. His eyes narrowed.

She waved the stalk of celery. “I’m literally eating right now.”

“You know those have like, negative calories, right?” Max snorted. “I told David they’re the most useless vegetable, but he likes them with peanut butter.”

Peanut butter. Perfect. Delicious protein. Gwen pushed to her feet, peeking inside the pantry. There. A jar, just waiting to be—oh. Empty. She groaned. “Let me guess. Saturday is your day for grocery shopping, too.”

“Yep,” Max took another bite of his pancakes, syrup dribbling from his fork.

She rolled her eyes and sunk back into the seat across the table. Max regarded her, and it was like an angry kitten considering its prey. He pointed the fork in her direction. “You look like shit. I haven’t seen you this tired since someone released mice in the mess hall.”

“That was you and Nikki.”

He shrugged. “Seems like something you can’t prove.”

“I _can_ prove it, you little demon,” she crunched on her celery, glaring at him. “I found the box where you’d been collecting them. Under your bed, right next to that fucking teddy bear.” She wrinkled her nose. “Jesus, David should have thrown that thing out—”

“Don’t bring Mister Honeynuts into this,” Max said, mildly offended.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Look. I’ll go the store so we’ll have something for dinner, then come home and take a nap. But only if you stay in bed while I’m gone. Fair?”

She highly doubted leaving a ten-year-old alone was an A+ parenting move, but at this point she was out of options. Max was harping on _her_ , but he was the one with bags under his eyes. The last thing she needed was to cart a sarcastic, sick little boy around the supermarket. It sounded like her own personal hell.

Max considered it, mopping up the last of his syrup-drenched pancakes. He’d scarfed those down faster than expected. Must have been pretty hungry, which made Gwen strangely satisfied that she’d been able to make him breakfast, even if she didn’t get to eat too.

“Fine. Deal.”

She sighed in relief. “Thank god.”

He smirked.

But although his expression made her doubt his sincerity, Max finished his food and took the proffered cup of water and strolled back into his bedroom, just as he promised. She slipped into her shoes and coat, hesitating by the front door.

“Hey, Max?”

“What?” Down the hall, his voice was annoyed.

She swallowed, closing her eyes against the headache that hadn’t left since Thursday night. If she was being honest, she kind of did feel like shit. She just hadn't had the time to assess her own physical state until now.

“Whaaat?” he repeated, louder.

“Just—stay inside, okay? Don’t leave again.”

All the implications of that hung between them, and the silence stretched so long she assumed he was ignoring her. She heaved a sigh and turned back to the front door, tapping her phone for another Uber.

“I won’t,” he finally said. She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing in the hallway, already in his pajamas: a black t-shirt with some superhero on it, and matching, patterned pants. He stared at the floor, scuffing the carpet. “And it wasn’t snowing when I left. I—I don’t remember when that started.”

It was the closest he’d come to an outright apology. She lowered her cell phone, even as his cheeks turned red with embarrassment. But for his credit, Max didn’t retreat into his bedroom. Not yet. He just stood there, as if awaiting her judgment.

She considered a lot of different responses, but she was too tired to yell and too numb to scorn. Instead, she repeated what she’d read on Google, during her panicked searches after tucking him into bed that night. “Well... Hypothermia sucks your energy, and makes you kind of loopy. People lose the ability to reason properly. I know it wasn’t your fault, Max.”

He pursed his lips, glaring at the carpet.

She unlocked the door, stepping outside. “But for the record, David’s not the only one who would have been devastated by that.”

“I’ll stay inside,” he mumbled.

Well, that was progress, at least. She smiled and changed the subject. “Okay. I’ll be back soon. Promise. Did you want anything at the store?”

He shivered against the chill coming through the doorway. “Coffee.”

“Not a chance, you little shit.” With a laugh, she locked the door behind herself.

It took two hours to buy everything she needed for another week at David’s place. She picked herself up a toothbrush—her teeth felt really gross—and a few other toiletries. Then she piled in cans of soup, peanut butter, and all the other necessities. As an afterthought, even though her mother’s money wouldn’t last forever, she tossed in a container of blueberry scones.

Just in case.

By the end, her cart was overflowing with a hundred dollars-worth of supplies. As she regarded it, glancing at the checkout line, she hesitated.

Pulled out her phone.

And called Evans.

It rang four times before he picked up. “ _Hello_?”

“Hello, sir. This is Gwen. Sorry to bother you, but—” she drew a deep breath, leaning against her cart, “a family emergency just came up. I have to fly to Denver for a week or so. Is there any way I can start next Monday instead?”

Her hands trembled, heart racing, as she awaited his reply.

It took an agonizing minute before he sighed. “ _Well, nothing we can do about that. We’ll make do for another week._ ”

He sounded disappointed, but she still had the job. Gwen felt like crying. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I’m so sorry. If—if you wanted me to do long-distance work while I’m there, I can definitely manage that.”

“ _Hmm. That’s not a bad idea. I’ll have my intern send you an email._ _Good luck this week. Thanks for letting me know_.” And for the second time that day, he hung up.

Gwen felt like collapsing, right there in the baking aisle. Another week. She had another _week_ to figure this shit out. Her life in Indiana was safely on hold, and David was clawing out of his coma.

Things were fine.

Except, Jesus, she was tired. In a daze, Gwen pushed the shopping cart towards the check-out line, wincing at the total as she swiped her card.

The Uber driver was very helpful, aiding her in loading the groceries in the back of the tiny Prius. Gwen all-but sank into the backseat, and her eyes closed as they drove in silence from the grocery store.

“Um, ma’am?”

She jerked upright with a gasp. “Huh? S-Sorry! I’m awake.”

The woman smiled kindly and pointed at the apartment building looming over them. “We’re here. Do you need help carrying the groceries up?”

Wow. Five stars. Gwen smiled and shook her head. “I’m okay. Just been a long week.” With another apology, she loaded the bags along her arm, grimacing at their immense weight. The driver made sure she had it all, then drove away, leaving Gwen to hobble up the stairs with plastic cutting into her arms.

She thought about kicking the apartment door, but she’d _just_ ordered Max to bed. Waking him up to open the front door would be pretty awful parenting. Gritting her teeth, clenching her eyes against the now-pounding headache, she set all the bags down and unlocked the door.

The apartment was silent when she entered. For a moment, her heart seized with dangerous deja-vu. She abandoned the bags outside the apartment to creep to Max’s bedroom, peeking through his open door. But the boy was right where she expected, snoring softly.

Her shoulders sagged. Thank _god_.

She gathered the bags in the foyer and eased the front door shut, then went about carrying them to the kitchen. But the second she opened the fridge, her eyes settled on a plate that _definitely_ hadn’t been there before.

He’d made her chicken nuggets.

Gwen choked. He’d fucking cooked for her.

Jesus, that was dangerous. But considering Max’s asshole parents, the fact that he knew how to operate an oven, how to fend for himself, didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t even thought about the chicken nuggets when she made him breakfast. They’d faded from memory the second she closed the freezer on the first night here.

But he knew they were there, and he’d taken the time to lay them on a pan—now sitting in the sink—and bake them for her. He must have dragged a chair all over this kitchen, just to see over the countertop.

Gwen swallowed hard, pressing her palms against her eyes. What the fuck, kid. What the _fuck_.

After a moment, she remembered the groceries. It only took a few minutes to put them away, and then she tugged out the plate, removed the plastic wrap, and pushed them into the microwave. Her stomach was beyond growling now, painfully silent as she stared, mesmerized, while the nuggets spun on the glass plate.

They were goddamn delicious, and she ate every single one.

Happily full for the first time in days, Gwen left the plate in the sink and padded back to the couch. But there was a pink sticky note resting on the cushion, the same kind David used on her wine bottle. Except this time, the words weren’t in his clean script.

No, these were scribbled angrily, like the author wanted to dig the pen into someone’s eyes instead of the paper.

Just like the “art” hanging by the front door.

 

 _Don’t you fucking dare_.

 

A harsh arrow pointed towards David’s bedroom. Gwen swallowed past the anxiety in her chest. She couldn’t sleep in David’s room. It felt—sacrilegious, somehow, with the man himself laid up in the hospital. But when she stepped inside, it was dark and quiet and perfect for sleep. David’s bed had bright purple sheets, turned down like a goddamn hotel, and a white pillow positioned at the foot.

It hadn’t even been _made_ two days ago. And his crumpled sheets had definitely been green, not purple. Which meant someone had changed them while she was gone.

Shit. Max was the perfect fucking host, wasn’t he? Gwen pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from—what? Crying? Laughing? She couldn’t tell.

He’d laid out one of David’s plain white shirts, with another sticky note.

 

_Your clothes stink. So do you. Take a goddamn shower._

She laughed, weakly, and followed orders. The newly purchased toiletries allowed her a nice, hot shower, and only when she felt squeaky clean did she slip on a brand new set of underwear, also purchased from the store. David’s shirt came down to her thighs, fine for the time being. She found the washer and dryer stacked near the foyer, hidden in a tiny closet, and tossed her dirty clothes inside.

Then, laundry running, she risked one more check on Max—still asleep—before collapsing on David’s bed.

It smelled like him. She curled up against the white pillow, breathing deeply. Relaxed and happy, for the first time in… Jesus, in _ages_.

Chest tight with gratitude for the little boy next door, heart aching for the man who _should_ be lying in this bed, Gwen drifted asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH THE COMFORT CHAPTER. 
> 
> I had this idea planned from the moment I conceptualized this plot. Couldn't fucking WAIT to get Gwen in food / sleep deprivation mode, and watch Max take over. <3 There'll be one more adorable fluff scene later in the fic (that I know of... who knows what'll happen when I'm writing!), and I think it'll make you guys just as happy. :D 
> 
> Now, time for sleep, just like Gwen. :3
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	11. Collecting Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen finally finds out how Max came to live with David.

Sunday and Monday passed in a blur of hospital visits, mealtimes, and movies. They spent the weekend watching Gravity Falls on David’s tiny, old TV—a show David insisted Gwen watch over the summer, and one Max thoroughly scorned.

Well, scorned until he discovered the show’s great-uncle, Grunkle Stan, and his constant schemes.

“ _That’s_ how I’m going to spend my golden years,” Max proclaimed with a mad cackle. “Tricking idiots out of money!”

Gwen laughed, right up until she realized he wasn’t joking. She filed away an ethics conversation for later, even as Max sat on the floor to get closer to the TV. 

Tuesday morning over bowls of cereal, Gwen tapped her spoon against the ceramic and said, “Don’t you have school this week?”

It would be a much-needed break. This mock-parenting was rewarding--and maybe sometimes even... fun, sometimes--but damn it, she missed her single life. And as promised, Evans had emailed her a shit-ton of things to do, things that would take her an entire school day to puzzle through without the help of new coworkers.

Failure wasn’t an option. She needed to put her best foot forward for this job.

But Max just scoffed. “How the hell could I attend school?”

“Is that a trick question?” she raised an eyebrow. “You show up.”

“Under what name?”

“ _Your_ name, smartass.”

Max leveled an exasperated, mildly irate stare in her direction. Almost like he was waiting for her to piece something together. Cogs began spinning in her head, and her brow furrowed as she lowered her spoon. “Wait. Didn’t David adopt you?”

“Legally? Not quite.”

Oh, _Jesus Christ_. “So your parents don’t know you’re here?”

Max munched on a bite of cheerios, expression carefully blank. “My parents don’t give a shit either way.” Gwen’s jaw clenched, and he scowled in response. “Don’t give me that look. David picked me up _at their house_ and they were too high to notice. What was he supposed to do? Shake them awake and ask permission?”

“He should have called the police—”

“He _did_ ,” Max snarled. “Shit, Gwen, get your head out of your ass. You think kidnapping me was his first choice?”

Kidnapping. Shit, shit, shit. David could go to jail over this.

Silence settled over the table, and Max jabbed his cereal. His words were so quiet, she strained to hear them. “The cops put me in the system. David wasn’t even an option. They dumped me at a local foster house and told me it’d be fine.” He scowled at the table. “It wasn’t.”

Gwen’s heart wrenched. “What happened?”

In response, Max averted his eyes and tugged up his hoodie’s sleeve. There were burn marks, cuts, scars she’d seen when undressing him several nights ago but hadn’t quite comprehended amidst the current threat of hypothermia. Scars that now, under the florescent kitchen lighting, looked angry and new.

Fury dredged in her gut, cold and hot at the same time. Goosebumps pebbled her skin, and it was a struggle to keep from screaming. “ _Christ_ , Max.”

He scoffed, tugging the sleeve back down. “Took me a fucking week to steal a phone.” His eyes were rimmed with red, and he stabbed at his cereal. “But ten minutes after I called, David was at the door.”

“He waited in Oregon for a week?”

Max sipped his milk and muttered, “Yeah. A whole week. Because apparently the dumb fuck had nothing better to do.”

And here she’d been, bitching about three days in Colorado. Jesus, she was such a terrible person compared to David. Their fight aside, he’d always been an outstanding friend and a caring counselor.

That was why his sudden betrayal _hurt_ so much.

Max had gone back to eating, polishing off his cereal with a few more bites. Gwen redirected the conversation back to her original topic:

“So he’s, what? Homeschooling you?”

“He’s pretty goddamn awful at it. You know he plans actual field trips? I’ve been all over this stupid city.” Max rolled his eyes. “And he insists on pop quizzes. Like, what the fuck? I’m the only one here.”

Gwen smirked at the thought, then chewed another bite of cereal. “Must get lonely. You ever miss Neil and Nikki?”

He shrugged. “David lets me call them once a week. We’re going to visit next month.” His expression fell, and he corrected, “Well, we _were_.”

“I’m sure he’ll make it work. David always follows through on his promises, remember?”

But saying that slammed the last week back into focus. Reminded her someone had drugged David to the point of a near-fatal overdose. Someone who, by her knowledge, hadn’t been caught. Was the stabbing related to the drugging, or a horrific, independent event?

Impossible to know. Not until David woke up.

They finished their breakfasts in silence.

Later that day, they went back to the hospital. Once again, Gwen was running low on funds, but she grinned past gritted teeth so Max wouldn’t know anything was wrong. Jake, the evening nurse, was far more accommodating to them, since he hadn’t witnessed their fight. He was also overworked and hassled, sprinting from room to room without much opportunity to talk. The last two times, he’d barely said “hello.”

This time, however, he pulled Gwen aside the second they arrived.

“Oh, good, you’re here. The cops have been asking about you.”

“Cops?” Gwen flinched, gaze sliding to Max. The ten-year-old pressed his lips into a defiant line, but didn’t speak. Which was probably for the best, given their conversation history inside hospitals.

Jake nodded, heaving a sigh as an alarm went off at the nurse’s station. “Hang on, I have to get that. Call this number.” He shoved a scrap of paper into her hands and darted away.

“Great,” Gwen groaned.

Max regarded the paper with disdain. “Tell them to go fuck themselves.”

She shot him a glare, and he shrugged against it. No remorse there. Unsurprising, considering his terrible history with police intervention. She grimaced and said, “I’ll call. Go see David.”

He rolled his eyes and strolled into David’s room. She heard him telling off David’s elderly roommate for “smiling too loudly,” before the door eased shut.

Gwen dialed the number with shaking fingers, pressing herself into a relatively private corner of the hallway. It rang twice before a no-nonsense female voice picked up.

“Hello? This is Detective Sanchez.”

“Uh, hi. This is Gwen. Gwen Stephani?”

“Hmm. So that _is_ your real name,” the detective chuckled. Behind her, someone shouted, “Told you so! You owe me fifty—” before she covered the phone and shouted something unintelligible.

Gwen lowered her eyelids. Professional bunch, weren’t they?

Detective Sanchez returned with a gruff, “Sorry about that. Ms. Stephani, we’re the detectives investigating David’s attack.”

“The stabbing, or the drugging?”

The detective went silent. “I’m sorry?”

“He was attacked twice. Stabbed _and_ drugged.” Gwen’s words were level, but she narrowed her eyes, silently daring the cop to protest.

“You sound like you have personal knowledge. Were you there?”

“No,” she yelped. “No, I flew in after the hospital called. Southwest flight 269, last Thursday from Indianapolis.”

“I see. Thank you for the information.” Sanchez paused, as if writing that down, then said, “We were under the impression he’d overdosed on his own and stumbled into a bad part of town. Do you have evidence Mr. Forrester was drugged?”

Well, she wasn’t outright discounting it, which made Gwen’s defenses lower a little. She massaged her temples and replied, “The hospital did a hair test and confirmed it was an isolated incident. Except for some painkillers after he broke his arm a few months ago, David doesn’t use drugs, prescription or otherwise.”

She refrained from saying he was “high on life,” but only barely.

The detective sounded contemplative. “Hmm. Is there a chance that some external stress has been affecting Mr. Forrester lately?”

Gwen glanced across the hall, at David’s closed door. Well, there was Max. The kid wasn’t easy to handle, but David usually fared better than most. Although parenting Max probably wasn’t the biggest stress, not if David had basically kidnapped him from Oregon.

Illegally.

“Ms. Stephani?”

“No,” Gwen heard herself say, firmly. “No, David’s life is fine.”

Detective Sanchez hummed affirmation. “Any history of depression? You said he doesn’t take prescription pills, but is there a chance he’s started medication of some kind?”

Shit, Gwen had no idea. She’d never seen him take pills in Camp, but everyone had a history of depression these days. She gritted her teeth. “Look, Detective. He works with children. I know there’s no reason for you to believe me, but talk to his coworkers. You won’t find a more dedicated caretaker. He’d _never_ jeopardize his job or put the kids in danger like that.”

It was cruel irony that, two days ago, Gwen had been convinced David was on drugs. Her gut coiled in sick guilt. If _she,_ one of his closest friends, could think the worst… well, there wasn’t any reason some random cop wouldn’t, too.

Except Detective Sanchez surprised her. Her voice was calm and kind. “Okay, Ms. Stephani. I understand. We assumed this was a random attack, but clearly there’s more to the story. I’ll personally look into this and get back to you, all right?”

Gwen was blindsided. “Oh—Okay. Sure. Thank you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no! I just… I can’t believe you believe me.”

Detective Sanchez sighed. “Ms. Stephani, regardless of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Forrester’s evening, he _was_ violently attacked. We’re trying to keep our streets safe. If speaking to his coworkers helps locate the perpetrator, we’ll try it. That’s our job.”

Gwen found a smile playing on her lips. “That’s great. Thank you, Detective. I really appreciate it.”

“As I said, I’ll be in touch.” She hung up.

Gwen lowered the phone and rested her head against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Whoever had done this to David was still out there. But it helped knowing the police hadn’t just written this off.

She was starting for David’s room when the door burst open, and Max shouted across the hall, “He’s awake!”

Every nerve in her body alighted. “What? Really?”

Jake and a second, nearby nurse leapt into action. Max stepped aside to admit them, but even as Gwen skidded to a stop by the doorframe, his green eyes weren’t on her _or_ David. No, they were trained on a third nurse, walking in the opposite direction.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Was that—”

“Nnngh… Max?” a weak voice floated out of the room.

“David,” Gwen breathed, trying to edge around the ten-year-old boy.

But Max didn’t move. Despite everything happening behind him, his body was coiled tight as he watched the nurse round the corner. Gwen followed his gaze, caught a flash of blonde hair before the person disappeared.

She frowned. “Everything okay?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “I thought I saw Daniel. Just now.”

“Daniel? That counselor we hired?” David had insisted Daniel was just misunderstood, confused, but the story Max painted—once they kicked Jen to the curb, of course—shed the blonde man in a different light. A chill ran down Gwen’s spine, and she rubbed her arm. “I’m sure it was just a look-alike. We’re pretty damn far from Sleepy Peak.”

“Yeah,” Max muttered. “I guess.”

The way he said it, voice low and suspicious, made her shudder. She forced a smile and said, “Ah, let’s go inside. David’s calling for you.” She herded him into the tiny room, but her eyes lingered on the empty hallway for a moment more.

If Daniel was lurking around the hospital, David was in more danger than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG DANIEL WHO CALLED IT
> 
> But the twists aren't done quite yet. ;) 
> 
> GOOD NEWS THO--tomorrow will be a DOUBLE UPDATE! That's right. TWO chapters!! :D :D Getting near the end now. I'm so excited!!
> 
> PS: Haha. Couldn't resist a Gravity Falls reference in there. Freaking LOVE these summertime forest shows. XD
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	12. That Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen can't see David. All of a sudden, she just can't.

Although they’d been waiting for this day, neither Gwen nor Max seemed to know how to handle it. The nurses bustled around David, checking his pupils, taking his pulse, asking him basic questions and nodding at his answers. But Gwen stayed pressed by the door, mostly hidden from David’s sight by the curtain dividing him from his roommate.

The elderly woman in the other bed was awake, and she smiled wide at Gwen. “Cynthia? Dearie, what’re you standin’ over there for?” Her voice was high-pitched, piercing, and Max rolled his eyes.

“Have fun, Cynthia,” he said with a smirk.

Gwen scowled, but behind the curtain, David croaked, “Max? That you?”

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring at the overbearing nurses before stepping into David’s line of sight. “Who the hell else would be in your room after a four-day long coma?”

“—coma?”

He sounded confused, weak, not at all like the David she knew. And suddenly, faced with the reality that he would see her, _talk_ to her, for the first time in four months… she couldn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Not after That Weeekend, when David stood her up. Not after she’d spent agonizing hours sobbing in the bathroom, obsessively checking her phone for voicemails from a hospital… or worse, the police. Not after she spent hours brushing off her family when they asked, over and over, pity in their eyes, if she’d been stood up. Not after she'd smiled and waved, looking prim and proper as any bridesmaid should, even as she fucking _broke_ inside.

And especially not after he called, twenty-four hours later, as if nothing was wrong.

She’d _never_ been so angry, hearing his half-assed apology. He couldn’t even give her time to rant—no, the second she got warmed up, he’d cleared his throat and said, “Ah, sorry, Gwen, but can we talk more later?” And after her cold, “Fine,” (which really meant _fuck no_ ) he didn’t call back for a week.

One. Fucking. Week.

And now he really _had_ lived out one of those horrific scenarios and she had the perfect chance to make amends, to get her best friend back, but that lump of anger still sat hot in her gut after all this time and when her eyes settled on the blue curtain, imagining the man laying beyond, she froze.

Paralyzed.

The nurses talked with David for a few more minutes, then left him to Max’s company. Gwen pressed against the elderly woman’s bed to let them by. Jake offered a rare, harried smile, which she shakily returned, but even after they’d exited the room, she couldn’t move.

Max didn’t seem to notice she hadn’t followed.

David didn’t know she was here.

In one brief moment, Gwen’s tenuous place in Colorado had vanished. All that remained was a fractured friendship and a parenting role she no longer had the right to fill.

"Cynthia—” the elderly woman tried again.

Oh, god.

Gwen yanked open the door and all-but ran back into the hallway. Jake and the other nurse were talking near their station, and he glanced her way with a questioning look. She forced another smile and strode past. As if she was just going to the vending machine. Or taking a phone call.

She couldn’t see David. She couldn’t have this conversation while he was on a hospital bed, recovering from near-death. Not while Max stood nearby, shouting at her for being the worst person in existence.

She thought she’d gotten over That Weekend, but apparently she’d just buried the betrayal and all its emotions in a deep, dark corner of her mind. And now her subconscious had dragged that tattered box of memories right into the open, and she _just couldn’t deal._

And so she ran.

Into the elevator.

Down to the ground level.

And straight to the empty chapel.

This time, it wasn’t a calming, meditative space. This time, it was a private corner for her crippling, heaving sobs, a dark room where Gwen could fall apart. Tears streamed down her face as she sunk into the back pew, right where Max had been sitting two days earlier.

When David was in a coma.

“O-Oh god,” she cried. This was fucking ridiculous. Sobbing like this in a hospital meant someone had died, but David was awake and alert and _FINE_.

Except she wasn’t crying for David. She was crying for all the Sunday mornings afterwards, when she’d sat in her apartment, staring bitterly at a black iPad screen, coffee cup in hand. She was crying for all the times her anxiety kept her huddled in bed, rather than calling the one person who could coach her through the day. She was crying for her own rash decision to end their friendship, for David’s sad agreement, for the anger that didn’t melt even after he’d apologized and months passed and she _should have gotten over it_.

But she couldn’t. That had been the worst fucking weekend of her life. Her mind played the reel on repeat, and every memory was like a knife twisting in her heart.

Inviting him to her cousin’s wedding, holding her breath over the phone, heart pounding when he cheerily agreed.

Paying for his round-trip plane ticket just to make things easy on him. Anything to keep him from backing out.

Telling her extended family to expect him, that he was someone special, that they were going to _love_ him. 

Grinning behind her champagne glass as her cousins teased her for what she was about to do.

What she was about to ask.

Gwen buried her head in her hands, shoulders shaking. Not trembling. All-out shuddering, like she was sitting in the ocean being battered by waves. And that’s exactly how she felt, drowning, the buoy sinking beside her as those shadowy tendrils came alive, curled around her ankles once more.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

So of course, that’s how Max found her.

“Jesus, you’re an ugly crier,” Max’s voice was harsh, but she barely noticed, so wrapped up in her own little world. She sensed him hovering awkwardly by the door, heard him huff and sit next to her, felt him pat her shoulder, but he might as well have been a whole universe away.

“Gwen?” he sounded smaller now. Younger.

Shit, she was really going to cry like this in front of a kid? But “floodgates” were accurate; now that tears were streaming down her face, stopping seemed impossible.

Max seemed to realize it too. After a long moment, he said, “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

She knew. _He_ was never the one harboring hate. No, that was all her, and it was black and icky and she _wished_ she didn’t feel like this, _shouldn’t_ feel like this, but logic never seemed to win over raw emotion.

“Y-Y-You should l-leave,” she sniveled. “D-David’s miss-ing you.”

“David’s fine. Jake’s running tests. I was just getting in the way,” Max replied, casually, as if his temporary adult wasn’t the one acting like a child, unraveling in front of him.

_Jesus, Gwen, get it together. You’re fucking pathetic._

She couldn’t.

It took several minutes before she had the breath to ask, “W-What about D-D-Daniel?”

“I was seeing things,” Max muttered, but he didn’t sound like he believed himself. After a moment, he added, “But just in case, you should probably pull yourself together so we can get back upstairs.”

Gwen trusted Jake, but that meant David was only safe as long as the nurse was running tests. If Daniel was behind David’s initial attack, there was no telling what he’d do to finish the job. Max was right. They needed to get back upstairs.

She pressed her palms to her eyes. “I—I don’t—I can’t see him l-like this.”

“Pretty sure David knows you’re a god-awful crier.”

That made her laugh, pathetically, and when she cracked open an eye it was to Max’s smirking face. He patted her shoulder again and jerked a thumb towards the door. “Okay, but seriously, you done?”

He was so good at this comforting thing, wasn't he?

But… but he was here. He’d found her, when he could have stayed with David like he so clearly wanted. And that wasn’t nothing.

Maybe her place in Colorado wasn’t as tentative as she thought.

Even though fear crept through her veins like ice, freezing her to the spot, she couldn’t stay in this chapel forever. She was still angry, still devastated, but… maybe it was time she genuinely tried to forgive, rather than sealing up a friendship and relying on forgetting.

At the very least, she should give David a real, earnest chance to explain where he was that weekend.

Swallowing past the sobs, wiping her dripping nose on her sleeve, Gwen followed Max back upstairs.

And that’s when they caught Daniel strolling out of David’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG NOW YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THAT WEEKEND. 
> 
> SO the reason for the double-update is because I felt bad teasing that David's awake, then not having hardly ANY conversation with him. XD So enjoy this, and I'll be uploading the ACTUAL David chapter in a few minutes. :P
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	13. David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel is up to no good, and Gwen makes a decision.

For a moment, she and Max froze, as if they couldn't comprehend Daniel leaving David's room. As if they were in some weird, messed up dream.

Max seemed to get a grip on reality first. Anger clouded his face, and he snarled, “Hey! Asshole!!”

Daniel glanced over his shoulder and smirked. The casual reaction, the smug expression, the piercing blue eyes—it all amplified into an icy-cold fear that slammed Gwen like a truck. Daniel seemed to know it, too, because he met her gaze and winked, then strolled off down the hallway like nothing was wrong.

Max growled and lurched forward, like he was going to tackle a grown fucking man to the ground. Gwen grabbed him immediately, and he thrashed against her hold. “Let me go! He’s getting away!”

“David,” Gwen said faintly.

Max went still in her grasp.

“David,” she repeated, and they sprinted into the room and threw back the curtain.

David was sleeping again, and Max breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s okay,” he said, hopping onto the chair, hovering near David's open mouth. “He’s breathing.”

But Gwen’s eyes trained on the IV. No one but Jake had a reason to touch it. And yet, the IV bag was now swaying slightly against its metal pole.

Her breath seized, and she snatched it off the pole, ripping the bottom tube off. Clear fluid splashed over the tile floor, causing Max to yelp and curse.

She wasn’t listening. “The IV,” she choked. “He did something to the IV.” Her eyes traced the clear tubing, all the way under David’s sheets. Panic surging into her throat, she threw back the covers to reveal his forearm, the needle taped to the back of his hand. She wasn’t gentle. She fucking tore it from David’s skin.

David whimpered, then cracked open an eye. “Mmmngh…” His hazy gaze trained on her, and despite how weak and sick he must have been feeling, his expression brightened instantly. “ _Gweeeh-n_.”

“Hi, David,” she said, voice trembling. His hand was oozing blood, and she pressed the white bedsheets to it, applying steady pressure. “Max, take over. I’m going to get Jake.”

“Jesus,” Max muttered, looking thoroughly shaken. His cheeks were dark with anger, his green eyes glaring at the door, at Daniel’s casual exit. “David, you’d better be okay. He better not have gotten to you. You hear me, you dumb shit?”

“Language,” David slurred, his stupid smile dropping as he turned his gaze to Max.

The boy rolled his eyes, but his shoulders sagged in relief.

Gwen’s heart thumped against her chest, partly because of the adrenaline coursing through her own veins, partly because of her co-counselor’s goddamn smile. Apparently four months wasn’t enough time to forget, to move on. Not from the fluttering in her stomach, or the clenching of her heart.

God, she felt like crying again. If Max had been a few minutes later in the chapel… if they hadn’t seen Daniel… if they hadn’t visited today…

If, if, if.

Gwen needed to get control of herself. If she hadn't had a breakdown, David wouldn't have been left alone to begin with. Who knew how long Daniel lurked in this hospital, biding his time, _waiting_ to see if David would wake up or succumb to his wounds? Her eyes settled on the wet floor, and a shudder ripped through her.

Too fucking close.

They needed help.

“Max,” she said, distantly. He glanced at her, followed her gaze to David’s bleeding hand, and huffed. His tiny fingers overtook hers, applying steady pressure the way she had. David’s loopy smile was back, beaming sunshine as he said, “Good job, bud.” His words were slurred, almost drunken, but he seemed happy.

Oblivious.

Good. Let Gwen carry this stress, not David. He had enough to worry about. The bandages on his chest were a stark reminder of the shit he’d dealt with this week.

“I’ll be right back. Watch him.”

“Fine,” Max said, but his eyes trained on David obediently.

God, this was so surreal. Gwen moved past the curtain, but David whined, “Gwen? No, don’t—don’t leave again!” In his haste, he was _really_ slurring his words, but that just made him sound even more pathetic.

It killed her. She clenched her eyes shut, drew a shaking breath. Amazingly, through all of this, his elderly roommate hadn’t stirred, sleeping the drama away. Gwen felt Max’s gaze on her, waiting for her to respond.

But how else could she? She’d been angry, but now David's life really was at risk. Now there was a madman slapping a target on his back. One wrong move, and she might not get the _chance_ to rekindle this friendship. And faced with a life like the last four months, she wanted to throw herself into an apology, have a real conversation, become Gwen and David instead of Gwen, and David.

The only thing stopping her was her stupid, stubborn pride. And damn if that wasn’t a near-impenetrable wall.

She stepped back into David’s view and forced a smile. “It’s okay. I’m just going into the hall for a minute.”

His entire body seemed to sag into the pillows. “Don’ leave,” he whispered.

Oh god.

Then Max snapped, “Jesus Christ, David, she’s going into the hall. Okay? Not the fucking moon.”

David flinched at his loud tone, lowering his gaze to the sheets.

Gwen squeezed his forearm. “It’ll just take a few minutes. I have to talk to your nurse.”

“’Kay,” he mumbled. God, he was pretty pathetic on pain meds. Or maybe just pain; she had no idea if the hospital was giving him anything other than fluids, after an overdose. 

Too many questions. She set her jaw and walked outside.

Jake was staggering towards the nursing station, looking harried as usual. He didn’t even manage a smile as he sunk into a rolling chair. Gwen almost felt bad for approaching him, but they definitely needed to have a conversation.

“Hey, Jake."

He took a deep swig of a dark liquid that smelled like coffee. Although she couldn’t have blamed him if he’d put some whiskey in there, overworked as he clearly was. But his eyes were alert as he asked, “Everything okay? How’s Mr. Forrester?”

“Well, someone just tried to kill him,” she replied. “So not great.”

Jake choked on his coffee. It was a sheer feat of brilliance that he didn’t spew it all over the station’s computer. “What?”

“Have you seen a blonde man walking around? Dressed in scrubs, looks almost identical to David.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, I'd have noticed if he was wearing scrubs. But that guy’s been by to visit Mr. Forrester every day. They're brothers, right?”

A chill ran up Gwen’s arms. Oh _shit_. Every goddamn day? How was David still alive?

Well, Daniel was a psychopath. Maybe wasn’t a thrill in killing a coma patient. Or, for all she knew, maybe he was genuinely _worried_ about David. Maybe he’d formed some weird attachment to him after the episode at Camp, and she just totally overreacted by ripping the IV from his hand. 

But based on that sly smile Daniel flashed her before strolling away, she doubted it.

“Not his brother," Gwen replied, faintly. "That man is a known murderer. He almost killed an entire summer camp full of kids last year.”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “What? No. He was—he seemed fine. Normal.”

“He’s not."

“Shit,” the nurse sagged in his chair, massaging his temples. “Shit, I don’t need this.”

No one needed this. Especially not David. She clenched her jaw and asked, “How bad are David’s injuries?”

“Well, he was _stabbed_ , so—”

“How bad, Jake?”

The nurse heaved a sigh and tugged a chart from his drawer. Gwen recognized it from her conversation with Lila a few days earlier. Keeping one eye on the door, she leaned over the counter to get a better look.

Jake pointed to a plain, nondescript drawing of a man that had been marked by the doctor. “Three wounds from what appeared to be a pretty gnarly knife. One in the right shoulder, one that nicked the 9th rib, and one in his right thigh. That last one missed an artery, but only barely.” The nurse pressed his lips into a thin line. “It’s not great, but the wounds are stitched now, and healing well. Doctor Smith did a good job.”

“Can I take him home?”

The question seemed to blindside Jake. “What?” When Gwen just stared at him, he floundered. “I wouldn’t recommend it. The meth is out of his system now, but he’s only just started to really recover—”

Shit. She didn't have time for this. Who knew when Daniel would double back? Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me put it another way. Considering the murderer prowling around your hospital, _targeting David_ , would my friend be stable enough to recover in the safety of his apartment, under my supervision?”

Jake looked pale now, running a hand through his hair. Gwen felt bad for him, but realistically, the alternative to taking David home was staying by his side, day and night, until the cops found Daniel. And that’d be fine and dandy, except she had a ten-year-old to contend with as well. It just wasn’t practical.

Besides, David had spent enough time in the hospital. If things got bad again, she could always call an ambulance, but she’d spent enough time at Camp to know how to change bandages and keep someone comfortable.

And frankly, a third-story apartment would be easier to barricade than a hospital room. Just the thought of staying here for another week, knowing Daniel was strolling around unchecked, made Gwen’s skin crawl.

Jake shrugged. “I mean, we can’t keep him here, if you’re determined to check him out. We’re not running a prison. But I’m sure if you call that detective, she’ll post a guard outside his room.”

Hmm. Well, there was another option. Twenty-four hour protection.

But how long would that last? And why would they bother when there’d been no proof of Daniel’s existence before now? They had no death threats against David. No hard evidence linking the two men. Nothing except Gwen’s word that David didn’t take the meth himself.

Daniel was kind of brilliant, she had to admit. Just like back at Camp, he’d fooled her, hook, line, and sinker.

She wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“I’d feel safer with him at home.” Her tone softened against Jake’s frown. “Can you walk me through how to take care of him?”

Jake pushed to his feet, tone disapproving. “I could. But I still have to suggest against this. Removing David from the care we can provide might—”

“Uh… guys?” Max’s voice sounded strained. Gwen spun, convinced Daniel had snuck inside while they talked, but the boy appeared unharmed. Just weirdly rattled. She was at his side in an instant, sinking to her knees.

“What’s wrong?”

He was trembling. “The old lady’s dead.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Bransfield? But—but she was just here for a UTI!” He rushed past Gwen, then emerged a minute later, brows knitted in confusion. “I don’t… I don’t understand. She was fine an hour ago. We were about to release her.”

But Gwen and Max shared a dark look, and Gwen pushed to her feet. “You should test the IV for foreign chemicals. But we’re going to check David Forrester out now, if you please.” Her voice was strangely calm, considering the roiling anxiety in her stomach.

Jake glanced back at Mrs. Bransfield, then sighed. “Fine. But first, we need to call the police.”

Gwen tugged her phone from her pocket. “Already on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! Enjoy these chapters, folks! I'm gonna write more tonight so I can upload something else tomorrow, but my writing space isn't the best this evening, so we'll see how much I get done. >.>
> 
> But OOOOH, DANIEL YOU FIEND. 
> 
> Not gonna lie; I have no idea if a hospital would allow Gwen to check David out. But I want some fluffy home scenes, damn it.
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	14. Getting David Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen rips David from the hospital and barricades him at home.

Detective Sanchez arrived at the hospital just as Gwen finished signing the paperwork to assume care of David. Doctor Smith arrived, briefly, to explain everything, from the liability she was assuming to intricate care instructions for a recovering victim. Jake popped by to say goodbye, amidst performing thorough assessments of the rest of his patients.

As such, Gwen and Max were alone when the detective arrived. Two uniformed officers followed in her wake, so there was no mistaking who she was. Dressed in a professional suit with her hair in a tight bun, Sanchez looked more like a corporate ladder climber than a cop.

She assessed them with a sharp gaze. Then she glanced at her officers. “You two. Get security footage for this hallway. _Find that man_.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said, and left as fast as they’d come.

Max glared at their retreating forms from beside Gwen’s waist.

Sanchez thrust out a hand. “Detective Sanchez. Tell me everything you know about Daniel.”

It took two hours. Max even chimed in when it became exasperatingly apparent Gwen had no idea what the cultist had actually _done_ at Camp. When the detective listened, nodding, but never interrupted, he seemed to get encouraged and talked even more.

He even kept his language appropriate.

Relatively.

And then, when he finished, Sanchez glanced between them and asked, “And what’s the nature of your relationship?”

Well, that seemed to dissolve any charitable feelings Max might have had towards the detective. Gwen literally watched his expression close off, his eyes narrow, his fists clench. But she couldn’t stop him before he snapped, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Oh, shit. They might as well paint a giant red sign overhead that said, _SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT HERE._

“He’s my cousin,” Gwen added, swiftly. Forcing a smile to smooth things over. Nothing to see here, folks. “David’s something of a… mentor… for him.”

Sanchez appraised Max, now a short bundle of fury, with a blank expression. Then she made a note on her tiny pad of paper, tapping it with her pen. “I see. I’ll need to speak with his parents, then. Can you give me their names and addresses?”

“I’m his guardian, actually. I just couldn’t leave him alone in Indiana, so I brought him with me.” Gwen tried to sound casual, but her heart was pounding. Oh god, oh _god_. This was it. The moment she _and_ David went to jail for kidnapping a minor. Even if Gwen hadn’t been present for the actual event, she was firmly an accessory to the crime now.

Lying to a cop. Jesus. What had she become?

“You’re his guardian,” Sanchez repeated, sounding unconvinced.

“My parents are drug addicts,” Max said coldly. He didn’t even have to fake the hate and anguish that would accompany a sentence like that. When Sanchez raised her eyebrows, he scoffed. “You want my fucking astronomical sign while you’re at it? Because here I thought you’d come to find out about _Daniel_.”

Gwen had to suppress the shock on her face. Damn, this kid was good at lying.

Which was… mildly alarming, actually.

But his fierce conviction seemed to convince the detective. Sanchez flipped her pad shut. “I’m not the enemy here, Max. I’m just trying to do my job and keep you two safe. You two _and_ David.”

“Then how about giving us a ride out of this hell hole?” Max crossed his arms.

“We’re working on language,” Gwen said, cheeks burning.

Sanchez breezed past his cursing, looking contemplative. “I can have an officer take you home and check the apartment before you three go inside. If this man is as fixated as you say, there’s a chance he already knows where Mr. Forrester lives.”

Gwen suppressed a shudder. Even Max looked sick at the idea.

“In the meantime, I’ll get in touch with Sleepy Peak and verify what you’ve told me. If anything happens at home, call 911. We don’t have the manpower to station someone outside your house, but I’ll have some officers check up on you from time to time.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said, and meant it. Max huffed, but even he didn’t have a snarky reply to that.

Sanchez nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” Her eyes lingered on Max for a moment longer. Gwen tensed, but the detective just tugged a radio from her suit’s pocket and summoned one of the officers she’d brought along to take them home.  

One hour later, they pulled up to David’s apartment in a squad car. The backseat was plastic and uncomfortable, but the ride was free, so they couldn’t complain. While the officer went upstairs to check out the apartment, Gwen felt David’s forehead.

From his pale face to his staggered breathing, the man in question wasn’t doing great. The doctor had urged Gwen to keep him in the hospital, just as Jake had, and now guilt colored her perception, making her doubt her decision.

Probably, Daniel would assume his attack succeeded. Probably, he was on his way out of the hospital, out of Colorado. Probably, she was being paranoid.

But it was too late now. Even Max seemed relieved to be home, especially with David at his side. He waited anxiously, nose pressed against the cop car’s window, watching the officer ascend the stairs and disappear into their hallway.

“I hope he finds the bastard. I hope he kills him,” Max said.

Gwen kind of hoped that too. But David, drowsy from medication (turns out he _had_ been given a light pain reliever, a prescription Gwen refilled during their last half-hour at the hospital) frowned. “Max… everyone deserves a s-hecond—second chance.” His words were still slurred, arguably worse outside the calming quiet of his hospital room.

Another spike of guilt stabbed Gwen’s heart.

This was the best option. Better than Daniel hunting David through a building full of strangers. _This was fine_.

Max looked dark and angry. “Daniel’s the one raving about his afterlife or heaven or whatever the fuck it is. About damn time he gets to see it firsthand.”

David must have decided to pick and choose his arguments, because he sighed and dropped the conversation. Instead, he sagged against Gwen’s shoulder and muttered, “’M tired.”

His weight was achingly familiar. Like all those nights around the campfire, watching the embers die after the campers had gone to bed. After the evening chill set in, and they had to huddle together under one blanket to “conserve heat.”

Gwen always considered bringing a second blanket, the logical thing to do. But in the end, she never had.

David hadn’t either.

This was different than that. They weren’t shoulder-to-shoulder now. David was leaning against her out of necessity instead of comfortable companionship. Gwen shifted to take him against her chest, pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. He whimpered at the movement, brows pinched in pain.

Bad idea. Bad idea. Jesus, what had she been thinking, yanking him out of the hospital? There was exactly one place someone in his condition should be.

Across the backseat, Max glanced at her, brows knitted together. She forced a shaky smile, trying to comfort both him _and_ herself and failing pretty miserably. 

“Wanna sleep,” David’s voice was barely a whisper.

“The officer’s just checking your apartment, okay? And then we’ll get you into bed,” Gwen murmured.

His eyelids fluttered, head lolling against her chest. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Gwen replied, swallowing hard.

Max pressed his lips into a tight line, but for once kept quiet.

The cop came back with the all-clear, and helped Gwen get David up the stairs. It was an agonizingly slow process, one she hadn’t considered when checking him out. He was barely fit to walk, much less climb. But eventually, with David groaning and struggling to stay awake, alert, they made it inside.

The cop did one more sweep while Gwen eased David into bed. Max stayed perched at the foot, watching David, as Gwen escorted the officer outside. The cop promised to do a few more drive-bys during his shift in case Daniel was lurking around.

But something told Gwen the cultist wouldn’t be so easily found.

She double-locked the door, then, as an afterthought, barricaded a chair against the handle. It was probably overkill, but when Max stepped out of David’s room to see what the noise was, he just nodded approval.

Neither of them were taking chances.

It was dark outside, far later than Gwen expected to get home. David’s eyes were already drifting shut, even as she arranged the pillows around him to get him comfortable. Max hovered in the doorway until she glanced back with a stern expression.

“Okay, Max. Bedtime.”

“No fucking way.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious. Don’t test me. Not tonight.”

And maybe something with her tone registered. Or he realized what a shitty day she’d had. Or he was actually tired and didn’t care to argue in front of David. Whatever the reason, he shoved his hands into his hoodie’s pocket and grumbled something under his breath and stomped through the kitchen, over to his bedroom.

Gwen gave him ten minutes, then left David to check up on him. He was climbing into bed, but the glare he gave her could peel paint. In response, she flipped him off, which made him burst out laughing.

She smirked. “Goodnight, you little shit.”

“Night, bitch.” She almost had the door closed before he added, “Ah, Gwen?”

“Hmm?”

“If—If something happens with David—”

“I’ll wake you,” she said.

He scoffed. “Not because I care. He’s being a wimp right now.”

“David’s always a wimp,” Gwen replied with a roll of her eyes.

Now Max chuckled, settling under the covers. She caught the bare outline of him clutching that stupid teddy bear before she eased the door shut.

Sleep sounded amazing, but once again, someone needed her more. With a weary sigh, she started a pot of coffee.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. 
> 
> This is your "breather" chapter. Enjoy it, because Chapter 15 is fucking angst. Imagine the Potter Puppet Pals, with Harry going "angst angst angst." MWAHAHA. 
> 
> By the way, you guys FUCKING ROCK. Just in case you didn't know. I'm not lying when I say that I write original stuff all the time, but this is the first goddamn fanfiction I've ever been determined to finish, literally only because of how awesome your reviews are. It's blowing my mind that so many people are tuning in every day, anticipating MY words. I'm so blessed. You all make me so happy! <3 <3 
> 
> Meanwhile, tomorrow. Chapter 15. It will *not* make you happy. >:)
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	15. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen finally confronts David about That Weekend.

A nightmare awoke David around 3am. The house was dark and silent, with Gwen staring sleepily at her cell phone. David started groaning, then whimpering, until he shifted position and his breath hitched and his eyes flew open. Panicked, he stared around the dark bedroom, even as sweat beaded on his forehead and his eyebrows knitted in pain.

Gwen’s own breath seized, and she pushed forward, keeping her voice to a low whisper. “David. Hey. It’s okay—”

“Go ‘way,” he cried, shoving at her.

Did he think she was Daniel?

God, she _hoped_ that was the case.

Desperate, she flicked on the bedroom light, and the sudden glow made both of them wince. Gwen took David’s good hand, the one not bandaged from the IV, squeezing it as his eyes adjusted. Slowly, agonizingly, the throes of the nightmare vanished, replaced with hazy recognition.  

“See? We’re okay. You’re okay,” she murmured, running her thumb in slow, comforting circles on the back of his hand. He still had the thin scar where Nurf stabbed him, and it made her frown. She hadn’t noticed too often in Camp, but David always seemed to be getting hurt.

One way or another, someone was hurting him. Even her.

Gwen swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth and released his hand.  

“S-Sorry, Gwen,” he said, shakily. “Just—just a dream.”

He sounded clearer, more coherent. Probably the meds wearing off, if his pained expression was anything to go by.

“One minute,” she said, and slipped into the kitchen, where she’d left his medicine. She listened by Max’s door for a minute, but the kid seemed to be sound asleep. No movement, no noise. Good.

Clutching the pain pills, she stepped back into David’s bedroom and eased the door shut. His eyes locked on them, glazed and confused, until she pulled two pills out and offered them with a glass of water.

Then he pushed as far away from her as he could get.

“N-No pills. I don’t—need them.”

Uh huh. Now _where_ had she heard that before? Like father, like fake-adopted son. Gwen lowered her eyelids.

But David wasn’t like Max. He wasn’t a little boy with scars of prior abuse, enduring merely a fever. David’s wounds were really serious, and she couldn’t allow them to get worse because he started writhing in pain.

So she eased the pills in his open hand. He shuddered at the touch, something she chose not to read into. “Come on. This is important, David. I need you to take these.”

“They make everything… fuzzy,” he finished lamely. His eyes even kind of looked like Max’s during the fever: glazed, with no filter hiding his true emotions. But instead of irate, he just seemed vulnerable. Sad.  

Gwen sighed. “That’s the point. If it’s fuzzy, you just need more sleep, okay? You’re home now. Just relax and get better.”

“Can’t sleep,” he said, pushing the pills back into her hands. “Not while y-you’re here.”

Not while she was here. God, he hated her that much now? She’d thought he’d been happy to see her, back at the hospital, but he was pretty dosed up at the time. And now that he was thinking clearer, he probably wondered what the hell she was doing in his house, sitting by his bed.

He didn’t want her here.

This early in the morning, there was no flare of anger accompanying the thought. Now, facing David, seeing his injuries, glimpsing his normal life… she was just sad. She tried to keep her face even, expressionless, as she pushed to her feet.

“Okay. No problem. I’ll just be out here if—if you need me.” Her words hitched, but she cleared her throat and flashed him a smile.

But the panic was back in his voice now. “No! No, Gwen, don’t go. Please don’t go again.” Tears rimmed his eyes, and the pain pills dropped to the carpet as he reached for her.

Gwen was floored. She’d totally misread the situation. He still cared about her. He _wanted_ her here. Her heart seemed to swell, thumping against her chest alongside those damn butterflies in her stomach. How the fuck he managed to revive _these feelings_ in one stupid day was beyond her.

But she took his hand and sank back into her chair, trying hard not to smile. “Okay. Okay. I’m here as long as you need me.”

Her first day at work, her return to Indiana, seemed so far away now. A perpetual date on the horizon that she hoped would never arrive.

For the first time, she wished those words— _as long as you need me_ —were true.

David laced his fingers through hers, far different from the hold she’d used to pull him from the nightmare. This was more than comfort. More than friendship.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“I _missed_ you,” David said, holding her gaze. His expression was still pain-ridden, but his eyes did seem clearer now. Gwen went still at his words, but he just stared at her like… like…

What was that quote? Like she was as “beautiful as the night sky, and he had all evening to go stargazing.” Some bullshit like that.

Gwen’s cheeks warmed. If he felt her palm sweating, he didn’t comment.

His green eyes just brightened as he squeezed her hand and added, “I know you’re mad. But I wanted you to know. I miss you so fucking much, Gwen.”

“Jesus, David, _language_ ,” she joked, even though she was screaming inside.

David chuckled weakly, his breath hitching again. He groaned, his injured hand—the one that wasn’t holding Gwen like a lifeline—lifting to his injuries.

“David,” she started.

“It’s fine—” he tried, but she rolled her eyes and extracted her hand to tug the covers down. He’d come home in a gown she’d purchased from the hospital gift shop, but she’d stripped it almost immediately when he settled into bed. The result was David’s bare chest, which—considering the white bandages wrapping him like some kind of Halloween mummy—wasn’t as sexy as she knew it could be.

 As she expected, the bandage over his right shoulder was dotted with blood. He might have pulled a few stitches during their climb up the stairs. Her fingertips feathered over it. “I’ll need to rebandage that. If I threaten you with Max, will you take the pills?”

David set his jaw and shook his head. “I don’t take drugs.”

She glanced at him, wondering if he knew just why he was in the hospital at all. By Jake’s measure, it wasn’t the stab wounds that nearly killed him. They just exasperated an already-major problem.

“The doctor said these ones wouldn’t make you nauseas—”

“Gwen,” David said, in a way that ended the discussion with one simple syllable.

With a heavy sigh, she retrieved the discarded pills, setting them on his nightstand instead. A fight for another day, perhaps. “Okay, okay. No pills. Not even for Max.” Silence settled over them for a bare second before she averted her eyes and gathered her courage and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about him, David?”

“Y-You told me not to call.”

The flare of anger hit her like an exploding sun. She closed her eyes against its surging rise, trying to keep from shouting at him. He didn’t deserve that reaction—he’d just been doing as she asked—he probably didn’t think it warranted her attention—or that he was protecting her from responsibility—or or _or_.

Her voice trembled. “Bullshit.”

He dropped his gaze to the sheets, picking at one of his bandages. His hand looked limp and pathetic now that it wasn’t intertwined with hers. Gwen couldn’t bring herself to reach for it.

“Come on, David. Tell me the goddamn truth. You owe me that, at least.”

David swallowed. “He asked me not to tell anyone.”

And that.

That stopped her cold.

David collected Max from Oregon, put his entire life on hold and assumed the responsibility of a child who wasn’t his. He started homeschooling and bought Max superhero pajamas and promised visits to his Camp friends and… and of course Max wouldn’t want anyone knowing about that. Any extraneous adults might shatter the illusion.

So of _course_ an abused little boy would want that slice of heaven all to himself, even for a few months.

 _But_.

“I—I didn’t realize I was ‘anyone,’” she whispered.

They used to tell each other everything. _Everything_. And now he was staring at her with a pained expression, and it wasn’t because of his wounds.

His voice was equally quiet. “Well, I didn’t realize friendships like ours could just… _end_.”

Gwen flinched. His observation wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t intended to wound or maim. It was more like that moment of quiet, disappointed contemplation, where a person notices the darkness in the world for the first time. Darkness Gwen had skirted for years, had become so acquainted with that she forgot how easily it could destroy someone.

Even someone as sunny as David.

It was stupid, but Gwen had never before considered that betrayal might have corrupted _two_ people That Weekend.

The silence between them was suffocating. David was the first to crack.

“I’m sorry I missed the wedding, Gwen. I’m so, so sorry.”

Gwen’s bottom lip trembled, and her eyes burned. He’d said that before. So many fucking times, but after his offhanded dismissal during that first phone call, it always sounded like he was scrambling to make amends, begging her to believe he wasn’t someone who stood people up.

And she knew he wasn’t, but she’d been stood up before. By friends, by dates, by her own goddamn father. She was twelve, waiting on the dirty curb as the sun dipped behind the ramshackle houses and she clutched the letter that promised “ _see you on your birthday, kiddo_ ” and tears slid down her face until her mother sunk beside her and said, softly, “Honey, I told you, he’s not coming.”

And then David had gone and done it all over again. And she almost gave him another chance, because he was _David_ —she’d kicked people to the curb for less, but he was fucking _David_ —but then he didn’t call back for a week and it was flashbacks all over again and she just couldn’t _handle it_.

So she _didn’t_ handle it. She broke it.

And now David was here, trying to hand her the pieces, and she still couldn’t manage to take them back.

Instead, she asked the question he never once answered.

“Where were you that weekend?” Gwen tried to stay calm, but tears spilled over her cheeks anyway. Jesus, she _was_ an ugly crier. But she had to know. “What was so important you couldn’t be there for me?”

David started crying too. His tears were big and fat and welled past red eyes, even as he gestured helplessly towards the door. “M-ax,” he said, brokenly. “I was p-picking up Max. I had my bag packed and the p-plane t-ticket ready, but then he called in the m-middle of the night and I didn’t _think_ , I j-just got in the car and—and drove.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“S-So that weekend, you were—”

David nodded, looking absolutely miserable. “He needed me, Gwen.”

And he was right. For one goddamn second, Gwen put her own feelings aside and considered the little boy next door. The one with burn marks down his arms, the one who ate with the vigor of a child who’s been starved, the one who ran into snowstorms because the idea of losing another caretaker was more than he could handle.

In that one goddamn second, she realized her own selfish problems didn’t take priority in this situation. She wasn’t the most important thing here.

She.

Just.

Wasn’t.

Tears spilled fresh over her cheeks, and she pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle the sobs. “Oh g-god,” she choked over the word, wrenching to her feet. David reached for her, but she couldn’t face him, couldn’t handle what she’d said to him, what she’d done to him.

All this fucking time, he’d been caring for Max.

All this fucking time, he couldn’t tell her the truth because _Max_ asked him not to.

And all this _fucking_ time, she’d been making him feel like _shit_ because her goddamn feelings were hurt. And she’d never once stopped to consider the little boy David had promised to help.

Not once.

“Gwen—” David started, but she ran, through the kitchen, throwing aside the chair barricading the front door, bursting into the freezing morning air.

Gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. 
> 
> Okay, so I saw a few of you wondering how being stood up caused Gwen to abandon David entirely and destroy their whole friendship. Mostly I'm going to account the miscommunication to poor writing, because if there are questions it's almost always the writer's fault for not explaining. XD But my idea from the beginning is that Gwen acted very selfishly. Like, that's it. She took it personally, had bad experiences in the past to compare it to, acted irrationally, and then was too stubborn to fix it. 
> 
> And then David got hurt. And she assumed the worst about his integrity and character. And THEN she finds THIS out. 
> 
> And yep. She feels like shit. Because she acted like shit. Because humans suck sometimes and emotions are tricky beasts. 
> 
> SO hopefully that solidifies her reaction and makes this story a bit more IC for Gwen!! I always kind of assumed she was somewhat impulsive, and tends to think the worst of people until proven wrong. And that's why David's such a good fit for her. <3 <3 And omg the make-up fluff. GUYS. It's coming.
> 
> \-------------
> 
> ON ANOTHER NOTE: Next update won't be until FRIDAY NIGHT. I gave you guys a double feature a few days ago, but I'm actually going to Denver to hang out with my cousin for two days. I don't anticipate much--if any--writing done. It's possible I'll find time and manage to get a chapter up Thursday, but don't count on it. :P SEE YOU GUYS THIS WEEKEND. <3
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	16. Max and Gwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max chases Gwen down. This time, it's up to him to help her.

Choking sobs blurred Gwen’s vision as she staggered away from the apartment. It was freezing outside, the chill whipping past her bare shoulders. She nearly skid on one of the icy concrete steps, which would have been _excellent_ because then she’d fall and crack her skull and forget everything and David would _have_ to forgive her for being such a selfish fucking asshole.

She was twenty-two years old. But no one would know it, not the way she’d been acting. _David was her friend_. He had a bad week and stood her up, yeah, but it wasn’t even his goddamn fault. It was her own fucking history, her own awful mind, that persuaded her David was some kind of nefarious creature out to ruin her life.

For Christ’s sake, five days ago she’d been _convinced_ he was doing drugs.

Apparently, she’d believe anything to make herself feel better.

Anything to justify her extreme response.

She’d just gone and assumed she was the most important thing in his life, because _he_ was the most important thing in hers. And when that proved not to be the case, she reacted like she’d been burned, pulling away, cradling the wound in her heart.

Fucking.

Pathetic. 

Huge, wracking sobs ripped through her, even as the cold numbed her cheeks and caused goosebumps to fleck along her bare arms. But she didn’t notice, fleeing just like Max had done five days ago. She couldn’t be in that apartment right now. Couldn’t be in the same room as David, who was so fucking pure and good that he reminded her of _all the evil_ she brought to the world. Into his life.

Self-loathing made her drop to her knees, right there on the icy grass outside of David’s apartment building. As much as she wanted to follow Max’s footsteps, to run and run and run all the way to that reservoir, hide under a hoodie and get covered in snow until her mind drifted and her heart froze, fear still crept along her spine.

Because Daniel was still out there.

And because of that, she stayed. Stayed at the base of the staircase, where she could keep track of anyone climbing to David’s apartment. Stayed as close as she could stand to the source of her agony, even as her mind screamed at her to get back on a plane and fucking fly to Indiana, where Evans would welcome her to her new job and Wally would be waiting for a fling and she could forget how goddamn terrible she was for just a moment.

The darkness closed in. Right up until someone dropped a heavy blanket over her shoulders and said, “ _Jesus_ , Gwen, aren’t you done with this shit yet?”

Max.

He was standing behind her, still in his stupid superhero PJs. His hair was a matted mess, but unlike her, he’d remembered the little things like shoes and a jacket. His green eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t tell me you’re running for the reservoir too.”

“Go the fuck away,” she tried to snarl, but it was all bark and no bite.

Max muttered something under his breath and tugged at her arm. “You left the door open, asshole. Or did you forget the cultist murderer who’s stalking David?”

And there was no guarantee they weren’t targets too, now that they’d so obviously interfered with his plans. Gwen gripped the blanket, tugging it around her shoulders, but couldn’t find the energy to stand.

Couldn’t propel herself back into that apartment.

Max stood over her, crossing his arms. His breath came in white puffs. “Speaking of David, I don’t know what the fuck you said to him, but he’s in there crying right now. Big fat crocodile tears. It’s pretty pathetic.” His words were dry, but there was an edge to them that was vaguely threatening. When she didn’t reply, he huffed. “Sorry, maybe that wasn’t clear. I’m saying you need to go upstairs and fucking fix this, Gwen.”

“I can’t—” her breath hitched, and she pressed her palms to her eyes. “Max, I screwed up.”

“No shit. What kind of person kicks someone like David to the curb? He’s like a goddamn puppy.”

He probably meant it as a joke, but it just made Gwen curl further into herself. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as sobs shook her body. “Oh, god, you’re right,” she wailed.

“Oh, Jesus.” Max scoffed, but plucked the blanket off the ground and thrust it at her, but her mind was so jumbled she couldn't piece together a thought, much less accept his offering.

"He was p-picking up _you_ this whole goddamn time. I was so upset at the wedding. I thought h-he didn’t care. But—but he went to Oregon to get y-you!" 

"Will you put on the fucking blanket?" Max muttered, shoving it against her face.

Numbly, she did as asked, hunching under the heavy fabric. But her shoulders were still shaking and her mind was a jumbled mess. It was all so clear. And so, so foggy. How could something so obvious be so confusing? "And then he wouldn’t tell me why because you asked him n-not to, and I j-just started _hating_ him, and oh, god, Max, I never wanted this—”

“Why was the wedding so fucking important, anyway?” he demanded, shoving his hands into his hoodie’s pocket.

It wasn’t the wedding. It wasn’t the dancing, or the drinking, or the family meet-and-greets. That Weekend wouldn’t have even been special, except for the Coffee Talk a week earlier.

She remembered the exact moment that realization hit her. David had been talking about paddle boarding on some lake in Evergreen—“just ten dollars a person, Gwen, can you believe it? I’m so gosh darn excited. Maybe you can come visit! I’ll create a whole _list_ of activities for us…”—and the light filtered through his blinds just right, so his freckles shone and his eyes sparkled, and—and that was it.

She may as well have been struck by lightning. It was such a profound realization that it literally took her breath away, and she started coughing, and then he was pressed closer to his webcam asking if she was okay, and she just choked and flashed him a thumbs-up even though inside she was positively screaming.

Max stared at her, squinting past the snow now gently falling around them. The light near the staircase flickered, but they were alone in this dark, cold forever.

“I—loved him,” she whispered, brokenly.

“Ugh. Forget I asked,” Max groaned. 

She swallowed another sob. “You’re an asshole.”

“Guilty,” he grinned. When it became painfully clear she wasn’t saying anything else, he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “So let me guess. You were gonna tell him at the wedding.” It wasn’t a question.

Gwen nodded. She’d had an entire moment planned. The bride was even in on it. Her cousins crafted an elaborate plot to empty the venue’s picturesque balcony, then lure David there under false pretenses. And Gwen would be waiting under the stars and some pretty yellow lights, and with nature at their backs and the party down below, she would tell him how she felt.

She’d imagined a thousand possible responses.

None of them involved him _not showing up_.

Max tilted his head skyward. The storm clouds reflected the city’s light, same as the night she’d arrived in Colorado. Through Gwen’s tears and the meager light, she could see Max had deep bags under his eyes; it was far too early for a ten-year-old to be awake, but he still came downstairs.

Even though she clearly didn’t deserve it.

And then he surprised her further.

“Sorry I made David choose between me and you.” His voice was begrudging, and he scuffed the grass with his shoe. But based on the way he averted his gaze, the way his shoulders trembled, he actually felt bad about it.

“You—Jesus, Max, you didn’t—”

“No, I did.” Now tears rimmed his eyes, but he blinked them away, as if erasing the evidence might erase his feelings. “He wanted to call you. But—” Max hunched his shoulders, cheeks darkening. “But it felt like a dream. I didn’t want to wake up. Still don’t.”

Gwen’s heart broke. “Max—”

“Don’t. It was a dick move, and I’m sorry,” he snapped. “Just take the fucking apology and go make David stop crying.”

Jesus, this kid.

Gwen stumbled over a laugh. “Sorry in advance.”

“For wha—”

But before he could finish, she engulfed him in a hug. He was so small under her arms, but her head buried against his neck and his hair tickled her nose and after an initial tensing, he relaxed in a way he’d never relaxed with her before. It filled her heart with warmth and she knew _exactly_ why David couldn’t leave this poor little guy alone in Oregon.

Because in that moment, the thought of leaving him behind in Colorado made her heart clench.

Max gave her exactly six seconds. Then he squirmed away, brushing snow off his hoodie and shaking his arms like she’d given him cooties.

“Okay, but that was it for the year. Try anything else, and I’m throwing all your stupid scones in the trash,” he threatened.

“Those are David’s.”

“Even better,” Max said, his chin jutting out stubbornly.

Gwen laughed, for real this time. It felt good, bubbling from her chest in a gleeful burst. When she came downstairs, she didn’t think she’d ever be happy again. And Max got a real laugh from her in, oh, fifteen minutes?

She ruffled his hair, and he swatted her hand away.

“Thanks for coming down, Max,” she said. “I needed it.”

“Fucking family would fall apart without me,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. Then he marched up the concrete steps, back towards the apartment and David. She trailed behind, snorting in exasperation as her frozen fingers gripped the blanket over her shoulders.

But she couldn't help but think that, funny thing was, he was probably right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG SORRY FOR THE DELAY I KNOW IT'S BASICALLY SATURDAY. The day just fucking ran from me, guys. FUCKING. RAN. 
> 
> Hopefully tomorrow's mellow and full of writing. >.>
> 
> ANYWAY. 
> 
> OMG GWEN LUUUURVES DAVID. Surprise surprise. XD Buuuut I hope it clarifies a bit more about her reaction, and why the gross feelings never really left her. And poor Max. He just wanted his safe family bubble to remain intact as long as possible. What a little cinnamon roll. 
> 
> GUYS. My new mug came in, In case you care, it's THIS ONE and I will be drinking out of it EVERY DAY. 
> 
> https://www.redbubble.com/people/waynefelton/works/29090856-campe-diem-merchendise?p=mug&style=standard&rbs=
> 
> ALSO my mini-vacation in Denver was amazing, and all y'all's well wishes made me so happy. <3 You guys rock, see you tomorrow! (Today? omg. So sorry again. T.T )
> 
> [SOMEONE USED ONE OF MY LINES IN THEIR ARTWORK!!!!](https://marikamlp.tumblr.com/post/176961846722/i-love-this-little-family-text-is-inspired-by)
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	17. Friends Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen and David make up, but she's still hiding something from him. After, the detective comes to visit.

Upstairs, the door was locked. Gwen paused beside it for a mere second, shock registering on her features, before Max produced a gold key and rolled his eyes. "You keep forgetting about Daniel, dumbass.”

She hunched under the blanket and mumbled, “Sorry.”

He shrugged and unlocked the door. Inside, they could hear a quiet sniffling. Max had been right; it _did_ sound pathetic. But despite the fact that David was obviously ( _obviously_ ) hurting, Gwen’s feet were glued to the linoleum floor.

The cold air was coming in, but David hadn’t seemed to hear them enter. She swallowed and said, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I do,” Max said with a snort. Then he slammed the door shut and shouted, “David! She’s back. Stop crying, for Christ’s sake.”

Gwen flinched. “You little asshole.”

He leveled a pointed, tired stare at her. “Now go fix it.” He tossed the key on the counter and stomped back to his bedroom, shedding layers as he went.

And then Gwen was alone, facing David’s meek, “G-Gwen?”

“I’m coming, David,” she said, suddenly feeling equally exhausted. And embarrassed. Had she really just abandoned David in his time of need because she realized what a bitch she’d been? Thank god Max had been cognizant enough to lock the door, or who _knew_ what might have happened?

Stupid, stupid.

She double-checked the deadbolt, then gingerly picked up the wooden chair she’d thrown near the couch in her desperation to escape, resituating it underneath the doorknob. It seemed… kind of feeble, now. But it was the best they had, since she’d plucked David out of the hospital.

Oh, god. She’d messed up. A do-over for this week would be appreciated. Or better yet, how about David not get stabbed and drugged at all, hmm? In a perfect world...

Gwen set her jaw and strode past Max’s stalwartly closed door, through the kitchen, into David’s room.

Only to find him lying on the floor, inches from the door.

“Jesus, David,” she yelped, and knelt to help him sit upright. His shoulder wound was bleeding through its bandages, the stitches definitely pulled after whatever activity he’d been attempting on his own. “You should have stayed in bed! I wasn’t gone long—”

“You were crying,” David said, helplessly. His eyes were shiny with tears, eyebrows pinched in pain. He looked paler than before. “You—oh, G-Gwen, I didn’t mean to m-make you cry.” His breath hitched—in pain? In anguish? She couldn’t tell.

Her own tears were pricking her eyes now, but that wouldn’t help anyone. She gritted her teeth to keep her emotions under control, pushing back David’s red mop of hair. He felt kind of feverish, probably the body’s reaction to all this stress.

Stress she’d directly caused, one way or another.

“David, I’m—” she was going to say, _I’m okay_ , but she wasn’t. Not really. Max had helped, but staring into the man’s eyes, knowing how she’d treated him… there weren’t enough apologies in the world. Instead, she amended: “It’s okay. Let’s just—let’s get back into bed, all right?”

He sniffed, nodded, but when she helped him to his feet, his right arm wrapped her shoulder with more firmness than necessary. Almost like a one-handed hug. She gripped his chest, his waist, and kept her gaze straight ahead, even though her heart pounded against her ribcage.

Her mind took her back to her confession to Max. _"I loved him."_

 _Loved_?

Jesus, that wasn’t true, was it? After all this time, it still wasn’t past-tense. After all this time, all it took was his touch to reawaken _everything_. She was so screwed. 

“You’re shaking,” he said, sniffling as she eased him back into bed.

“Panic after seeing you on the floor,” she replied, only halfway joking. He slumped against the mound of pillows at his back, but she didn’t pull the covers back over him. Instead, her fingers ghosted against the bandages at his thigh. He’d pulled some stitches there, too, and now they were bleeding just like his shoulder wound.

Her eyes flicked to his boxers, and her cheeks warmed. Of course he'd get stabbed _here_ too. Great. Just fucking great.

“I n-need to take a look at these,” she said, stumbling over the words.

His cheeks went red, a stark contrast to the pale color of the rest of his skin. Beads of sweat trailed his hairline, but she couldn’t tell if that was nervousness or pain. Probably pain, honestly. Her eyes flicked to the tiny white painkiller sitting on the bedside table, right where she’d left it.

“We need pressure to stop the bleeding, but that's going to hurt,” she said. “If you take a pill—”

“No,” David said stubbornly. He bunched the sheets in his fingers, drew a deep breath, and clenched his eyes shut. “I’ll be fine.”

She squeezed his arm. “David, please? I’d feel better. I don’t…” she trailed off, choking on the words, then forced herself to finish. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

He finally met her gaze. It was like looking into the greenest, prettiest part of the forest, late at night with eternity before them and the Camp behind. She'd almost _lost_ this man. Almost lost everything to do with him, and _them_. And that thought was horrifying and awful and he saw all of it inside her eyes. 

When he whispered, “Oh, Gwen,” her forced, authoritative demeanor shattered.

She started to cry.

“I’m _so_ sorry, David. I had no idea you went to get M-Max, and god, I said such t-terrible things to you. I never wanted to not b-be friends, and I’m so sorry I made you stop talking to m-me.” Now she was definitely the one sobbing big fat crocodile tears, but it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. So she kept babbling, hoping one of the apologies she was throwing at the David dart board stuck. Hoping one would be enough to repair a friendship so broken the pieces weren’t even in the same state. “I miss Coffee Talk and your stupid scones and our text messages and the thought of Camp and the way you’d talk me out of bed and—and—and _everything_ , David. I miss everything. I miss _you_.”

“Gwen,” David said again, and it was like she was back at Camp, on her knees holding Max’s stupid teddy bear, awaiting his judgment.

And just like then, he did the opposite of what she expected. The opposite of what anyone else in this situation would ever say or do.

Because David wasn’t like everyone else.

He pushed upright and wrapped his arm around her, hooking her into a proper hug. Their foreheads pressed together, and she could feel the fever against his skin and his hot breath on her nose and she didn’t dare breath in response because if she trembled, if she moved, if she spoke, this moment might end and then where would she be? 

But he wasn't repulsed and he didn't move away. Instead, David pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips were dry and chapped, and his hand shook with exertion, or emotion, or whatever. She was acutely aware of his soft little laugh, that _silly Gwen_ tone he used with her sometimes, as he whispered, “Friendships don’t die in a conversation.”

“Ours did,” she choked.

He pulled back-- _shoot_ \--and smiled, and it was brilliant. “I’d argue it was, ah... put on hold. I--well, I wasn’t a great friend either, Gwen. I’m really sorry.”

No. She wasn't hearing  _his_ forgiveness. This was supposed to be the other way around. Her voice was quiet, hoarse. “Don’t. You didn’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice.”

She swallowed. “Well, my choices sucked.”

He chuckled. “Mine too. We—We both needed time. But I knew everything would be good by summer. It always is.”

“We’re only halfway through March.”

“Right on track, then,” he said, and with a pained groan, he sagged against the pillows again. She leaned forward, already missing his touch, his breath on her nose. For a moment, she considered kissing him again. How would he take that? His eyes held hers, so different from Max’s but arguably more captivating, two endless forests of green. He spoke tentatively, as if he didn't already have her, hook, line, and sinker. “If you missed me, and _god_ , Gwen, I missed you, then… then nothing’s stopping us from picking up where we left off.”

Oh, shit, no. Now panic seized her. She’d been days away from telling him she loved him. The perfect situation, praying for the perfect response.  _That_ was where they left off, and it her standing at the edge of a cliff about to fling herself off with only a minimal chance she could fly. Back then, the risk had seemed worthwhile, the gains outweighing the dangers. 

But that was a long time ago. Now, faced with regaining a simple friendship, she was paralyzed. What if, by telling him the truth, she distanced him even more? She could imagine it now: his polite smile, a casual nod, followed by a sympathetic pat on her hand.

God, it would kill her. Plummeting to her death. Crash _. Splat._

She couldn’t tell him. She just couldn’t.

But he was looking at her, gaze imploring, so she forced a smile. Not where they left off. Maybe two weeks before that. That was safe territory. After all, she'd been lying a lot lately. She could keep this up.

“Y-Yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”

“Me too,” he smiled back, and it warmed her all the way to her toes.

Well, now they were just grinning at each other like idiots. To fill the stupid, happy silence, she said, offhandedly, “You know, friends would take the pain meds.”

“No, Gwen.”

Damn. Worth a shot.

 

* * *

 

 

Gwen slept on the couch again, crunched into an uncomfortable ball. David had drifted to sleep shortly after she changed his bandages, and she was so tired she’d felt woozy. So rather than sitting in the chair—again—she crashed on her old stomping grounds. 

But it was just two hours later, as morning light was beginning to creep into the apartment, that a loud knock kicked Gwen from sleep. She shot upright with a gasp, going from zero to sixty in a heartbeat.

The person knocked again, banging on the wood. The chair rattled against the doorknob.

Max burst out of his bedroom. His voice was hushed, eyes wide with fear:

“Is that—”

Gwen motioned for him to be quiet, tugging David’s shirt in a futile attempt to bring it to a presentable length as she stood on tip-toes to see through the peephole. While her gaze focused, panic thrummed in her heart.

Right up until she saw Detective Sanchez. The cop was holding her badge in plain sight, staring at Gwen through the peephole. Almost like she expected Gwen would be paranoid. Smart woman. 

Gwen nearly laughed in relief. “It’s the detective,” she whispered, and plucked the chair away from the doorknob to pull the door open. Gwen stepped aside to admit her. “Detective Sanchez! Good morning.”

“Sorry for the early wakeup call,” the woman smiled, taking the invitation to move out of the cold. She had snow on her boots from last night, and she stamped her feet a few times. Although Gwen closed the door behind her, Sanchez didn’t move further into the apartment. “There’s been a development, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“You caught Daniel?” Max crossed his arms.

She glanced down at him. Then her eyes flicked over his curly hair, to the partially open door leading into what was _obviously_ a kid’s room.

Gwen’s heart seized. Oh shit, oh shit. With a nervous laugh, she frantically gestured the detective through the living room, to the kitchen table near David’s bedroom. “Such a pleasant surprise. Come on, there's no need to stand here all day. Let’s sit and chat.”

“Uh huh,” Sanchez said, sounding suspicious. 

Oh god. This was it. The moment she called Gwen out, arrested her for lying about Max’s origins. Would David get healthcare in prison, or would they plop him right back in the hospital under armed guard until he was better? She imagined them handcuffing him to the bed, imagined him pleading to see Max and the cops only scowling in reply.

Jesus, he didn’t deserve that after everything else.

Gwen felt weak in the knees. When the detective slid into a seat, she made a jerking motion towards Max to close his bedroom door. For a moment, he just stared at her, but realization didn’t take long to dawn. His eyes widened, and he slipped back inside his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

Subtle. Gwen cringed, then forced a smile and turned back to the detective. “You want coffee?” Her voice had taken on a desperate tinge. 

“No.” Sanchez frowned. “I didn’t realize Mr. Forrester kept a spare bedroom for Max.”

“We visit a lot,” Gwen laughed—nervously—even as she busied herself filling a pot with water. The detective may not need coffee, but she absolutely couldn’t sit across from this woman and lie convincingly. She had to stay busy.

But Sanchez appraised her "pajamas," really just David’s flannel shirt, and... she smiled. “I see. Mr. Forrester is lucky to have you taking care of him.”

Gwen stopped short, glancing sideways at the older woman. It only took a few seconds to piece together what the detective assumed. And another breath to realize it was a good thing; if she and David were dating, _of course_ he would provide a space for Max when they visited.

The perfect excuse.

So Gwen grinned, not bothering to hide the blush that crept along her cheeks. “He’s a great guy. I think I’m the lucky one.”

Amazing, how easily _this_ lie slipped off her tongue.

Sanchez drummed her fingers on the table. “You didn’t happen to have the chance to ask him about the night he was attacked, did you?”

“No." But that'd have been smart. Gwen mentally kicked herself. She’d been so caught up in her own drama that she hadn’t thought about it. Nice going, Stephani. Really intelligent. 

The detective hummed. “That’s a shame. Well, I do have some news, but it’s not about Daniel." She paused, seemingly for effect, then said, "The man who stabbed David turned himself in late last night.”

The effect worked. Gwen nearly dropped the glass coffee pot. It was only years of waitressing at that stupid diner that allowed her to keep hold of it. Her mind was numb as she eased the sloshing pot onto the counter.

“ _What_?”

“It’s rare, but sometimes an attacker feels it’s in their best interest to turn themselves in. And in this man’s case, he provided information that will lessen his sentence,” Sanchez leaned back into her chair. “He claims he was paid to attack David.”

“Paid?” Gwen repeated, bracing herself on the counter.

Detective Sanchez nodded. “Brought in twenty thousand dollars cash, and showed us the burner phone he’d been using to communicate. There’s no reason to believe he’s lying.”

“Who—Who would do that?”

“That’s why I’m here. He wasn’t given a name. My people are tracking the burner phone, but it’s most likely a dead-end. But you and David might know more. Is it possible Daniel has that kind of disposable income, and hates David enough to hire someone to kill him?”

Gwen felt faint. “I don’t—Maybe?”

“Fuck no,” Max injected.

"Jesus," Gwen spun to face him. He'd gotten dressed in his typical jeans and hoodie, but today's version was rust-red. It made his sharp eyes stand out even more. She spoke through gritted teeth. "Max. Go back into your room. This isn’t a conversation for a fu—ah, for a _child_.”

The detective watched them both carefully, an impassive observer. 

More like a judgmental one. 

Max glared at them both. “Daniel likes things up, close, and personal. He _literally_ supervised those idiot campers as they poisoned the punch. Hiring someone to stab David wouldn’t be personal enough.”

Another chill ran down Gwen's spine. _This_ was the psychopath they were dealing with. This was the person stalking David. Someone who poisoned kids’ punch and wanted to watch the light fade from David’s eyes “up, close, and personal.”

It was a goddamn miracle David was still alive. 

But Detective Sanchez must face creeps like Daniel every day, since she didn’t seem fazed by the news. Her expression remained coolly professional, albeit a bit disbelieving. Her tone was level. “So you’re telling me that _two_ individuals are after Mr. Forrester.”

Two people, attacking the same night?

“What are the odds of that?” Gwen asked, hands trembling. Her eyes flicked to the bedroom, but David was undoubtedly fast asleep, or he would have chimed in. Maybe it was time to wake him. Find out what the hell was going on.

“That’s what I’m wondering." Sanchez plucked out her notepad, jotting down some information against the kitchen table. "Unless they’re working together—”

“But Daniel doesn’t _know_ anyone else who’d want to kill David,” Max snapped. “He was literally at our camp for an afternoon. That’s it.”

So who knew both David and Daniel?

“Maybe one of the other kids…?” Gwen muttered, but even as she said it, it didn’t sound right. They’d fallen for Daniel’s charm, sure, but none of them would want to hurt David. And no child would have $20,000 cash to just hand around.

But… there _was_ one other person who’d have that kind of income. One other person who’d already tried to frame David, promised to make his life hell. Killing was a pretty big leap, but with the right motivation, he’d done a lot worse things than hiring someone for murder.

“Oh, Jesus,” Max said, half irritation, half shock.

So he’d realized it too. Gwen held his gaze, and they both spoke the culprit:

“ _Campbell_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I think we're only like, two chapters from the end. Maybe three. 
> 
> WHAT. THE. FUCK. 
> 
> This has been such a ride. I can't wait to reveal motivations. Although, after seeing the finale, I'm questioning how canon this could be now. XD To be fair, Campbell was pretty murderous in the first episodes of season 3, when I started writing this fic... 
> 
> So now it's AU, I guess. Just go with it. :P
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	18. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David takes a turn for the worse.

Gwen stared at the pan, at the hot dogs sizzling for Max’s dinner. A bowl of cheese powder, milk, and butter sat waiting beside the stove, and the macaroni was roiling in a nearby pot. Gwen knew how to put this meal together, but it was like watching a lifetime movie, distant and dazed.

After the detective left, actually, the entire day passed like that. Even Max went back to bed, then spent the afternoon staring at some homework David had apparently assigned a week ago. Although Gwen kept ducking into his room, David himself spent the day in feverish sleep, tossing and turning and moaning in pain.

And he still refused to take the goddamn pills. Her heart physically hurt watching him.

When she finished one of the new assignments for the Zionsville Times Sentinel and sent that off to Evans, Gwen decided it was an acceptable time to make dinner. With Max mumbling at the kitchen table, she collected the ingredients, but her mind wasn’t there. No, every conscious thought was focused on what Detective Sanchez said, what they’d realized.

Campbell and Daniel. _Campbell_ and _Daniel._ She kept repeating it in her mind, but it just… it didn’t make sense. They didn’t even know each other. Hell, even _Gwen_ barely knew Daniel, and she’d been there when he was hired.

Once the ambulance left, last summer, David penned a letter to Campbell explaining what happened, how the Camp and campers were safe, how things were back under control. But without an address for Campbell’s current location, that letter collected dust in David’s desk drawer. To Gwen’s knowledge, he totally forgot about it, even after Campbell popped back in for Parents’ Day. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to remind him.

So, the only way Campbell would know about Daniel was if he went back to Camp, found that letter, and—what? Tracked Daniel down?

Why?

It was like shoving two different puzzles together to make one big picture. There was no instance where these two men would connect. No reason to think they were working together, except for the outrageous timing of David’s attacks.

Two simultaneous people working independently of each other, targeting David on the same night?

Even Gwen knew that was a pretty damn big stretch.

She turned the hot dogs, then flicked off the macaroni pot and carried it to the sink to drain. At the table, Max glanced her way, but the heavy bags under his eyes proved he was just as tired and confused as she was. As she poured the macaroni into the strainer in the sink, she made a mental checklist: dinner, bath, bed. He was only ten, after all. He shouldn’t have to deal with this.

And what _was_ this, exactly? What the fuck was going on?

Daniel was certifiably insane, so he didn’t really need a reason to drug David. According to Max, the cultist could justify even the most horrific things a hundred different ways, and still be flashing that creepy-ass smile.

But Campbell? He was pissed about David sending him to prison, sure. But that was almost a year ago. He’d been suspiciously quiet since then, to the point where Gwen forgot he existed. And David—

Well, David was still getting letters from the man.

Gwen nearly dropped the empty pot in the sink. Of course! The goddamn letter. Ignoring the hot dogs sizzling in their pan, the macaroni draining in the sink, she scrambled for David’s stack of mail, left in a pile near the patio door.

And there, on the top, was the one from Campbell.

“Tell me you’re not having another breakdown,” Max muttered from the kitchen table, shooting a glare her way.

“Fuck off,” she said, without vehemence, as she plucked the letter from the pile and held it up to the fading sunlight. But whatever was inside, Campbell had wrapped it nice and neat. It was impossible to postulate. “Do you know what Campbell’s sending David?”

“That asshole sends David mail?” Now Max sounded mildly confused, maybe a little irate. He hopped from his chair and reached for the letter, but she held it higher. He huffed. “Let me see.”

“It’s illegal to open someone else’s mail,” Gwen said, though her fingers twitched towards the sealed flap of the envelope.

Max snorted. “Oh, shit, _now_ you’re concerned about laws? You spent the whole morning lying to a cop!”

Gwen glared. “I had no choice and you know it. Unless you want that cop peeking into why you’re with David and not your parents.”

He reached again for the letter, and again she pushed him away. He scoffed, throwing up his hands. “Whatever. I’ll just go ask David.”

David was sleeping restfully for the first time all day. Gwen’s heartrate spiked at the threat.

“Don’t you dare!”

Max smirked, stepping for his bedroom.

Ah, fuck it. She tore the letter open, stopping him cold. In an instant, Max was back at her side, staring as she tugged the paper out and unfolded it. When a thin rectangle fluttered to the floor, he snatched it triumphantly.

“A check? Jesus. I just assumed Campbell already paid you for last summer,” Max rolled his eyes. “Some employer. Even I know that’s bullshit.”

“He paid _me_ ,” Gwen replied, turning the paper around. But it was blank, no writing, no explanation. Just an 8.5” by 11” white sheet, folded in thirds around the check. She dropped it on top of the mail, then reached for the check.

Max danced out of her reach, obvious payback for her earlier actions.

“Max, come on. This is important!”

He cackled.

Rather than chase him around the tiny apartment, she growled and stomped back to the kitchen. The hot dogs were close to burning, and the macaroni was going cold. She went about finishing the meal, mixing the mac into the cheese mixture, then slicing the hot dogs into thin round circles. As an afterthought, she cut the circles in half. She’d read somewhere that hot dogs could get lodged in a kid’s throat, and as much of a shit as Max was being right now, she didn’t want to be dealing with _that_ later.

And sure enough, the second she stopped showing interest and started plating the food, Max abandoned the check to sweep his homework away. Gwen gave him a glass of water, which he wrinkled his nose at, but he’d realized days ago arguing was no good.

He dug in while she sat across from him, turning her attention to the abandoned check.

The amount puzzled her further. “One hundred sixty-two dollars and seventeen cents? What the hell?”

“Sounds like a goldmine,” Max said through a mouth of mac and cheese. She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

Then again, he was just a kid. Even a smart one like him wouldn’t really understand how expensive things are, or how far a couple hundred dollars would—or wouldn’t—go. But he probably had enough comparisons after their fun-raiser to understand that if a thousand dollars would keep the Camp running a week, two hundred would barely cover groceries in that same span of time.

“Campbell wasn’t paying us a lot, but it was more than this,” she murmured, squinting at the check.

“I should hope so,” Max drawled.

“Maybe David is getting his payments in… installments?” She wasn’t sure why he’d do that, but it was the only thing that made sense. Except Campbell never offered to pay _her_ over multiple months. His checks always came—late, but they came—in a lump sum.

Max jerked his fork towards the door to David’s room. “You know, there’s one foolproof way to find out.”

She sighed. “Finish your dinner. I’ll talk to David afterwards.”

He grumbled something about overcooked hot dogs, but shoveled another forkful into his mouth.

Gwen actually waited until Max had eaten, bathed, and was dressing for bed before peeking into David’s room. It was dark and quiet and cool, but David’s breaths were coming in short pants, and when she flicked on the light to examine him, his cheeks were flushed with fever.

Shit _. Shit shit shit._ He was sick now, probably from the trauma of relocation, the stress of their fight, and everything else.

Gwen clenched her eyes shut. Jake, the nurse, had written down his phone number, but she’d tried her best not to call. Calling was like admitting she couldn’t handle David’s injuries.

But _clearly_ that was true, and it made her stomach twist. Jesus, she was a complete failure. But David’s health wasn’t something to gamble with.

She was fishing for her cell when David groaned, blinking blearily. His eyes looked like Max’s had days ago: cloudy, unfocused.

Feverish.

His voice didn’t sound much better. “Gwen…?”

“Hey, David,” she said, pressing a hand to his forehead. His whole body was shaking, and she carefully unraveled the bandage by his shoulder to examine the wound. It looked… redder than usual. Like the skin was pulled tight, puckering against the stitches.

She wasn’t stupid. He had an infection.

Oh, Jesus, this was such a mistake.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I just need to call your nurse. It will only take a minute.”

“I wanna watch TV,” he said, out of the blue.

She glanced at the dresser, perched across from his bed. The only TV she’d seen in the apartment was the tiny one in the living room. She patted his shoulder, pushed the sweaty hair from his eyes, smiled shakily. “Okay. I’ll bring the TV in. Just let me call the hospital first.”

“I miss watching TV with you,” he said, slurring the words a bit.

Gwen stopped. Vivid memories of curling on their respective armchairs, unwinding after a long day of chasing kids, smacked into her. She swallowed. “O-Oh. I miss that too, David. Maybe we can watch some TV tonight, okay?”

“Bob Ross?” he whispered.

“Sure. I love Bob Ross,” she replied, heart hurting. David was a vulnerable guy, but she wasn’t usually the cause of his problems. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

But he’d already zoned out, eyes slipping shut. Not good. Gwen left him, stepping back into the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with Max.

He was glaring.

“What’s wrong with David?”

“I don’t know. A fever. His wounds are infected,” she replied, faintly, fumbling for her cell phone. Where had she put Jake’s number? Damn it, she should have just saved it on her phone. Her hands pressed into her jean pockets, but came up empty.

Max scoffed. “I thought you were taking care of him. Isn’t that what you promised to do? You suck at this.”

 _He’s scared_ , Gwen reminded herself. _He’s lashing out because he’s worried about David too. Don’t take it personally_.

But damn it, that was hard. Because it sounded pretty personal, a repeat of everything she was already saying to herself, over and over and over. _Stupid_ , Gwen. Fucking stupid, taking David from the hospital. An infection could turn into blood poisoning, which was—oh _yeah_ —fucking fatal.

Her fingers shook so badly she dropped her phone. It clattered to the ground, bouncing to lay at Max’s feet.

He plucked it off the linoleum, squinting at her. He must have seen how freaked she was, because he gritted his teeth and said, almost mildly, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Gwen’s eyes burned, but she took the phone and began searching through her recent calls. She’d phoned the hospital multiple times those first few days, so now she picked one of the outbound numbers, barely keeping her voice calm long enough to request the nurse’s station on the seventh floor.

Max didn’t leave her side, but he also didn’t speak. It was a blessing, because one more snide comment from him might make Gwen burst into tears.

It rang forever, but Jake finally answered. “Jake Johnson, Medical Center of Aurora.”

“Jake,” Gwen kept her voice purposefully low, although David had clearly drifted off again. But just in case he was listening, she didn’t want to upset him. So she moved towards the balcony, well out of earshot. “It’s Gwen. Gwen Stephani?”

“Oh, hey. Did the cops catch that guy?”

Max trailed behind her as she unlocked the patio door and stepped outside. A burst of cold air hit her, but it was clear tonight, and the snow on the ground was dirty and melting. She shivered, but the temperature cleared her mind.

Three stories below, a cop car cruised past, as promised. It didn’t stop her heart from racing.

“No,” she said. “And now David has a fever. I—I think one of his wounds is infected. It looks puffy and red and—”

“Okay, okay. Calm down,” Jake spoke slowly, reassuringly. “Hopefully you caught it early. I’ll have Doctor Smith phone in a stronger round of antibiotics. David’s been taking the ones we initially prescribed, right?”

Oh, Christ. Gwen gripped the metal bar of the balcony, pointedly ignoring Max standing off her right elbow. “N-No. He refuses to take any pills. But I—I forgot about the antibiotics.” She’d been so concerned about the painkillers she hadn’t remembered the _other_ tiny bottle still sitting on the counter, hidden behind the empty box of mac and cheese.

She felt sick.

Jake was silent for a moment, then sighed. “That’s… not good. I need you to get to the pharmacy at the hospital as soon as you can. It’s the only one in the area open overnight. Make sure his wounds are clean before you leave, and layer some Neosporin on there to help stave off the infection. He’s going to have to get over that fear of pills pretty fast, Gwen.”

“I’ll make sure he takes them,” she said, forcefully.

 _This time_ , her mind hissed.

“Okay. I’ll have the doctor phone those in. Don’t waste time.”

Jesus, all she’d done today was waste time. Meanwhile, David was getting sicker and sicker, and she had no fucking clue. She drew a shaky breath, whispered agreement, and hung up the phone.

“Well?” Max said harshly.

She swallowed past the cotton in her mouth, stepping around him to go back inside the apartment. It suddenly felt warm, _too_ warm, stifling. She couldn’t breathe. “He’s—it’s not good. I need to go to the hospital. You’ll have to sit with him, okay?”

“Should we call an ambulance?” A tinge of fear tinted his voice, much as he tried to hide it.

If Daniel weren’t still out there, she’d absolutely advocate that. But—but moving David now might cause more harm than good.

Her eyes drifted to the TV. Anything to keep him docile and happy while she was gone. “No. He wants to watch something, so maybe you two can do that. Can you unplug the TV and bring it into his bedroom while I clean his wounds?” It looked small enough for Max to carry.

He nodded, jaw clenched, and she didn’t wait to make sure he was following orders. Instead, she slipped back into David’s room. He was lying on the bed, his breathing shallow and pained, sweat pouring down his face. God, he looked so sick.

She didn’t bother waking him this time. She just got to work unraveling his bandages. A soapy rag worked well to clean the wounds, something she’d done last night—but apparently not well enough. She found a tube of Neosporin in the kitchen, and did exactly as Jake ordered, slathering half of it over his injuries.

David awoke halfway through, but couldn’t seem to focus on her. He moaned and whispered, “I feel kind of bad, Gwen.”

“I know, David. I know,” she choked, and plucked a new set of bandages off the bedside table.

Max came into the bedroom, staggering under the weight of the TV. He set it on the floor by the dresser and plugged it in as Gwen rebandaged David’s wounds. She checked they were nice and tight, then pressed a kiss to David’s forehead.

A bold move, except he’d done the same thing twelve hours ago. And he probably wouldn’t remember this anyway.

She hoped.

“I’ve got to run out, but I’ll be back, okay? Max is going to stay with you and watch Bob Ross, all right?”

Max hated Bob Ross. But when she glanced at him, he shoved his hands into his hoodie and nodded. “Whatever. If that’s what he wants,” he said, grudgingly.

David was shivering again, trembling even as Gwen tucked under the covers around his shoulders. Her mouth was dry. This was like a bad dream, and she so desperately wanted to wake up. But when David looked up at her, she forced her voice to remain soothing, calm. “There, see? You’ll have plenty of company.”

“Jus—long as Daniel d-doesn’t come,” David’s eyes slipped shut.

Oh, god. Gwen flinched. Her reply was forceful. “Daniel’s not coming. You’re okay.”

Then she hesitated, but David wasn’t in his right mind to ask about the night he was attacked, about Campbell’s check, about their theory of multiple people teaming up to kill him. No, those conversations _should_ have happened last night, when he was somewhat cognizant, but—now it was too late.

Later. Once he was feeling better. Because even if she had to fight Daniel off herself, David _would_ feel better.

She erected the TV on the dresser, then strode from the room. Max followed her as she slipped into her boots, wrapped her coat around herself. “Barricade the door when I’m gone, okay? I’ll call David’s cell when I’m on my way back, so you’ll know it’s me knocking. Don’t you dare open the door for anyone else.”

“I’m not fucking stupid,” Max said, but he took David’s phone with more apprehension than usual. Gwen had charged it when they brought David home, just in case she had to leave again for whatever reason. She honestly expected it to be food related, not—not this.

Never this.

“Jeez. He missed a lot of calls from work,” Max mused, unlocking David’s phone with the ease of someone who stole it with alarming regularity.

“I’ll call them later. Once he’s better,” she said, then peeked through the peephole before stepping into the exterior hallway. It was silent, but a chill still whipped through her. “Max. Remember. Double-lock and barricade. Okay?”

“I got it,” he snapped. “Just don’t waste time.”

Gwen glanced over his head, towards David’s room, and swallowed hard. “I won’t.” With that, she strode down the stairs. The last thing she heard was Max slamming the door shut and flicking the deadbolt into place.

They’d be fine.

But the words sounded hollow amid the panic swirling in her gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... have nothing to say, except that Gwen's kind of a sucky caretaker, and David's kind of a sucky patient. XD And I'm just a sucker for sickfics. 
> 
> Soooo......
> 
> PS: My chapter titles are so fucking creative, sometimes I can't handle it. *she says, sarcastically*
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	19. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barricading the front door wasn't enough.

It didn’t take long to get the medication, but every minute felt like a fucking year.

Gwen threw a twenty at the Uber driver and begged him to stick around so she wouldn’t have to wait for another pickup. He seemed to sense her desperation, because he sighed and drummed the steering wheel, but he was still idling when she sprinted back out with the medication in hand.

She was climbing out of his car, back at the complex, when Max called.

“I’m almost there,” she gasped, running for the steps. “Is he okay?”

“Gwen—there’s—there’s someone in the house,” Max said. His voice was hushed, like he was trying desperately not to alert them of his presence. His fear was a tangible thing, like a hand gripping Gwen’s heart and stopping it cold.

Oh. _Oh god_.

The Uber driver was already gone. She scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign anything was wrong. No cop car, either. Shit.

Maybe Max was joking. This was a pretty goddamn cruel prank, but he could be cruel, sometimes. She climbed the stairs two at a time, the altitude stealing her breath faster than this level of exertion normally would.

“Daniel?” she gasped.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Max sounded angry, but she’d have to be deaf to ignore how his voice shook. He still wouldn’t talk louder than a whisper.

Shit. This wasn’t a joke.

“I’ll be right there. Fucking hide, Max. _Hide_.”

“But David—”

“Jesus, Max, _HIDE_.”

She turned off the cell, dialed 911 as she ran. Around one corner of the staircase. Up a flight. Around another corner. The medication felt heavy in her hands. Christ. She never should have left. Never should have left a fucking ten-year-old in charge of a dying man. Never should have assumed a simple chair under the doorknob would stop someone like Daniel.

If she’d remembered the antibiotics whens he brought David back from the hospital—

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Someone’s in my house,” Gwen hissed, cresting the staircase. The hallway was empty, the front door to David’s apartment closed. She screeched to a stop, perplexed. Why would Daniel close it behind him? Unless—unless he didn’t want anyone knowing he was inside.

“Address?” the operator said, urgently. “I’ve got an officer on standby.”

She rattled off the complex, the apartment number. Only once the operator confirmed police heading to the scene did she close the phone, creep towards the front door. The operator urged her to stay outside, to let the cops handle it.

But Max was inside.

 _David_ was inside.

So she turned the knob, pressing her ear against the wood. The apartment sounded quiet, and—the door was locked.

 _Locked_.

Gwen fumbled for the key, but the bottom lock didn’t open the door. Which meant the deadbolt was still in place from when she left. 

Fury rushed through her, hot and fast. Max. That little asshole. He _was_ pulling a prank. He was probably sitting on David’s bed, cackling at the fear in her voice, the terror in her mind. Shit, she was going to kill that little—

And then the door opened to reveal—

Daniel.

She. Fucking. Froze.

It was like those blue eyes turned her veins to ice, pinning her to the spot. He smiled wide— _p_ _sychopath_ —and tilted his head to an unnatural angle. “Ah, Gwen. I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Then his hand was on her mouth and he yanked her inside and closed the door ever-so-softly so no one would think anything amiss. Her instincts kicked in, and her teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his palm, and he yelped and shoved her into the living room, and she stumbled over her feet and crashed against the wooden coffee table and her head banged against the corner and stars burst into her vision and when they cleared he was cradling his hand, leaning over her, and the world narrowed to those blue eyes.

Fear slammed into her like a bullet, stunning her, ripping her breath away and dulling the pounding in her skull as her world narrowed to two options: fight or flight.

“That wasn’t kind,” Daniel said, soothingly, even though he tugged something from his belt. The knife glinted in the apartment’s light, and she squeaked in fear. The sound seemed to spur him forward, even as she scrambled backwards on her hands and knees.

The door to David’s room was closed. She fucking _prayed_ Max was inside, safe with David. Based on the gouges in the wood, it looked like Daniel had been trying to get through the thin door.

A few more minutes, and he probably would have.

And a chill of freezing wind brought her gaze to the open patio door. 

The front door's deadbolt had been locked until Daniel opened it. The chair was sitting nearby, nice and neat, as if he casually removed it before yanking her inside. Which meant he hadn’t _entered_  through the front door.

Which meant she’d forgotten to lock the balcony door. He scaled three stories, outside, just to break into David's apartment. And she'd left the fucking door open for him.

Jesus _Christ_ , couldn’t she do anything right?

Fury, self-loathing, all-out hatred numbed Gwen’s soul and eradicated her fear. She’d forgotten to give David his antibiotics, and he developed an infection. She left Max and David alone to retrieve more medicine, medicine that was now discarded on the foyer’s linoleum tile. And in the mean time, she’d forgotten to lock the other door of the apartment, giving Daniel an open pass to everything she loved.

Suddenly, his wide smile, his exaggerated head-tilt, his jagged knife—none of it was as terrifying as her own inadequacies.

And that made her fucking _pissed_.

She lashed out with her foot, kicking with the force of someone who spent all summer sprinting after children. Her boot made contact with his kneecap, crunched, and he howled, dancing away. Gwen took advantage of the lull, surging to her feet and grabbing the first item she could find: a potted cactus from the kitchen counter.

Thanks to horseshoes at Camp, her aim was frighteningly good.

Daniel grunted as the pot smashed into his pretty blond hair, the cactus pricking his skin before crashing to the ground. He staggered backwards, throwing it to the floor as Gwen scrambled around the countertop. When he advanced, she kept the cabinets between them, a middle ground for their dance of death.

“You weren’t part of this plan, Gwen,” Daniel said. His tone was borderline furious, but his face still sported that creepy smile. “Campbell just wanted David. But since you’re here, I’d be happy to help you ascend and reach your next level of existence.” He gripped the counter, dug his knife against the wood. It left a threatening gouge.  

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you _are_ insane,” Gwen snarled, yanking open the silverware drawer. David didn’t have any wicked knives like the one Daniel was sporting, but she snatched a paring knife and tried to look like she knew how to use it.

Daniel chuckled. “Resisting is admirable, but I promise you’ll be happier once—”

“Goddamn, Daniel, does _anyone_ believe that? Or are your victims all fucking morons?” A voice exclaimed, and they both turned to see Max standing in the doorway to David’s room.

Well, _now_ who was the fucking moron? Gwen was going to _kill_ that kid. Panic made her scream, “Max, get back in David’s room!”

But it was too late. Daniel turned towards him, abandoning Gwen entirely. His smile inched wider, if possible. “Ah, Maaax. I heard you in there. So nice of you to join us.”

“Suck a dick, asshole,” Max yelled, but now he had the decency to duck behind the doorway. Almost like he realized this had been a _horrible fucking idea_.

Gwen had to do something. Because now this crazed psychopath was advancing on Max, and he was the best thing David had in this world. Which meant Daniel could _not_ have him. Suddenly, all those mothers lifting cars off their kids made sense, because red literally tinted her vision, and she was ready to goddamn murder this maniac.

Max whimpered and tried to slam the door closed, but it smacked against Daniel’s hand instead. The man didn’t even flinch, just curled his fingers around the wood and pried it open. Max’s little body wasn’t enough to stop his progress.

Daniel peeked through the doorframe, laughing.

“Oh, David. There you are.”

Something snapped.

 _Fuck_ no. 

Gwen took two steps around the kitchen and buried the paring knife into Daniel’s neck.

“ _Jesus_ , Gwen,” Max shouted, but blood spurted from the wound and covered the knife and stained her hand and holy _shit_ she’d actually done it she’d stabbed someone and now he was bleeding all over the tile and David was going to be so upset and—

—and why the fuck wasn’t Daniel collapsing?

It was like the cultist didn’t even feel it, high on life or zeeborg or whatever the hell he worshipped, because even though blood was gushing down his neck, he turned those piercing blue eyes on Gwen and laughed hysterically and lunged, and then his knife was plummeting towards her and _oh god this was how she fucking died._

She couldn’t stop it.

The blade plunged into her shoulder, just above her heart.

Pain _EXPLODED._

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move, not even as he pulled the jagged knife from her skin, her veins, her flesh, and she felt every centimeter of the blade creeping against the wound, widening it, felt the blood wetting her shirt and streaming down her chest, her belly, her legs, felt her knees buckle, felt him catch her with some superhuman strength and raise the knife again and she swore lightning flashed even though it was a clear, beautiful night, because that was what always happened in those horror films and this sure felt like a horror film.

Maybe if she’d remembered to lock the goddamn balcony door, she wouldn’t have died tonight.

Maybe if she remembered to give David the antibiotics, he could have saved her.

Maybe if she’d never come to Colorado at all, she’d get to see that new job.

Get to live her new life.

Instead, Daniel plunged the knife into her again, and a scream tore from her throat, and her vision blurred around the edges, darkened, and all she saw was someone smashing a huge ceramic pot over Daniel’s head before

everything

.

went

.

.

**black**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
> 
> Okay, but seriously, quickest sickfic ever because it literally was just a plot device to get Gwen out of the apartment so Daniel could get in and AAAAH POOR GWEN. But omg the next chapter is the last, and then the epilogue, and I can't wait to SHARE THEM WITH YOU. 
> 
> TOMORROW, TOMORROW, WILL GWEN LIVE OR DIIIIE, TOMORROOOOW, IT'S ONLY A DAY AWAAAAY
> 
> [There's fanart for this chapter!](https://sydwritessickfic.tumblr.com/post/177283627449/im-not-that-good-of-an-artist-but-if-i-can-draw)
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)


	20. Back at the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen wakes up to David, and the end is near.

Snippets permeated Gwen’s consciousness.

Max shouting, panicking, shoving a heavy weight off Gwen’s numb body as blood saturated the air.

Someone calling authoritative instructions that sounded like a garbled mess.

Her body being hauled off the floor, positioned on something flat and firm, carried into the cold.

A poof of black hair at her side… until it wasn’t.

Flashing red and yellow lights.

Pressure on the wound. Pain that ratcheted into her skull, like a jackhammer went to fucking _town_.

Darkness engulfed her.

That lasted longest.

She flitted from one nightmare to the next as vivid images of Daniel chased her through the pitch, hiking up her heartrate, taunting her, grabbing her, until someone murmured softly. First, David, even though that couldn’t be true. Then Max. Finally, her mother.

God, she must be dead, if her mom had left Indiana.

Delirious from the pain, terrified of the shock, Gwen sunk into the ocean of her mind.

It took a long, long time before the seas parted and light made her groan and blink awake. She felt weird, disconnected, and so, so tired. Mumbling, she tried to turn over and go back to bed, but someone shook her shoulder and spoke insistently and _Jesus_ , what did a girl need to do to sleep in around here?

“Go ‘way,” she mumbled.

“Gwen?”

 _David_.

Well, for him, and him alone, she’d get up. David always gave her coffee and thirty minutes before trying to start a conversation. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck, so today she might need a full hour, but if she asked, David would give it to her.

David would give her anything.

She blinked hard, desperate to clear her vision now. When her eyes slid left, it was to see a mop of red hair, dark green eyes, a perfectly normal—kind and enthusiastic and _so David_ —smile. His cheeks were still a little flushed, but his eyes looked clear. Although Gwen couldn’t determine the significance of that in her current state, her subconscious told her it was important.

Good.

Gwen relaxed. It felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest. “Hi.” Her voice was rusty, her throat… sore? She coughed, and he held a spoon of ice chips to her lips. She ate them, crunching slowly, even as awareness crept back in. Details.

Daniel.

The attack.

David.

 _Max_.

“Jesus, what’d I miss? Is everyone alive?” she asked, desperately. The machine beside her beeped louder, but she forced herself upright, eyes wide. “W-Where’s Max?”

“Your mom took him to a hotel. He’s okay,” David said, soothingly. His hand pressed against her arm, easing her back onto the mattress, even though his brows were pinched with pain and he clearly wasn’t back to normal yet.

Actually, he was in a wheelchair.

Jesus, they were a fucking pair, weren’t they?

“—my mom?” Gwen couldn’t quite comprehend that.

David laughed, then winced, pressing a hand to his lower ribs. “Ah, sorry. Pain’s still pretty bad. Yeah, your mom came right away. At least, that’s what Jake said.”

Jake? “The nurse?”

“He’s around,” David chuckled, waving a hand. There was a band-aid there, right where Gwen had ripped the IV needle from his skin. He didn’t seem bothered by it.

Her eyes traced her own IV, up to the saline solution drip, drip, dripping into the clear tubing. Her breath hitched, and in her daze, she fumbled for the needle in her own hand. No IVs. IVs were bad. But again, David stilled her with a gentle touch.

“Daniel’s dead, Gwen. I heard he—he made it to the hospital, at least. But your knife… he didn’t survive the surgery.”

In other words, she’d killed a man. She tried to assess how she felt about that, but being as that “man” was Daniel, the fucking crazed cultist who went after _her boys_ , sympathy was hard to come by.

Maybe tomorrow.

“But that’s okay. We’re okay,” David whispered. His expression was pained, sad, but his eyes flicked to her shoulder. She followed his gaze to see the thick white bandages there, right above her heart. Now _his_ breath hitched. “I’m glad he’s dead. H-He almost got you.”

“He almost got you too,” she whispered.

“Gwen, I’m so sorry,” he clasped her hand in his, resting his forehead against them. He looked so defeated, so exhausted. “I never wanted you to get caught up in… in whatever the hell _this_ was. This week was so unfair—”

“You didn’t ask for it either,” Gwen scowled, even as her heart sunk with the reality of their situation. “And it might not be over yet. Campbell’s still out there, even if… if Daniel’s gone. What if he hires someone else to come after you?”

“He won’t,” a stern voice said from the door, and they glanced sideways to see Detective Sanchez. She was wearing a crisp black pantsuit, her badge clipped to her hip, hand resting on the holster at her waist. Her no-nonsense bun looked fresh, damp, like she was just reporting for work.

Gwen didn’t even know what time it was. Or how long she was out. Everything was fuzzy, uneven around the edges, but then David’s grip tightened around her hand and the important things sharpened into startling clarity.

It didn’t matter where or when or how. She was safe, everyone who mattered was alive, and that was all she cared about right now.

As long as David was at her side, she was fine.

The demons in her mind faded at the truth of that statement.

Sanchez strolled into the room, sounding exasperated now. “Stephani. Next time a 911 operator tells you to stay outside, _listen_ to her.”

Gwen sunk against the mattress. It was like she could only capture a few details at a time. Right now, they were limited to David’s hands holding hers, and the sharp look in the detective’s eyes.

Gwen’s reply was kind of pathetic, faced with the cop’s ire. “D-David and Max were inside.”

“I know,” Sanchez stated, crossing her arms at the end of Gwen’s bed. After a tense moment, her expression softened. “You were very brave. They’re both safe because of you.”

“You saved Max,” David smiled, and it was so blinding Gwen had to blink back tears.

The detective tilted her head. “Ah, yes, about Max. You haven’t been honest with me, Gwen. I checked your flight from Indianapolis. There wasn’t a passenger named Max on the manifest. Which means he didn’t come from Indiana with you. I know he’s not your cousin.”

Now David stiffened, which only spiked Gwen’s fear. If he was afraid, something was wrong. Her breath shortened to shallow, terrified pants.

“I—I—”

“Please, don’t hurt yourself further,” Detective Sanchez held up a hand, silencing her.

“Ma’am, I can explain—” David tried, but the cop’s gaze cut him off too. He sunk into his wheelchair, paling.

Oh, god. This was it.  

Sanchez assessed Gwen, no-nonsense. “You lied. But Max admitted who he really is, and I followed up. His parents are still in jail, and his foster family was reported to the Portland police a month ago. They’ll never get a government paycheck again.” Her tone darkened, but she shook her head and directed her attention to David. “And you. I shouldn’t have to tell you, but kidnapping a child is highly illegal. You’re very lucky Oregon State Police lost your trail when you abandoned your car. They’ve had an outstanding warrant for your arrest since January. If they knew your name, you’d already be in jail.”

He—he abandoned his car? She’d just assumed it broke down, and he scrapped it. But if someone had seen him driving Max from that foster house, of course he would ditch the vehicle in question.

Well, that explained why he walked to work now.

By the way David flinched, he knew it, too. Tears welled in his eyes. “P-Please, ma’am. If I go to jail, Max—he won’t stand a chance.”

“I’m aware,” Detective Sanchez said.

And then.

Then she smiled.

“Child services has already conducted a thorough search of your home, your finances, and your background. Max made it adamantly clear that you’re a suitable guardian for him. Although we do have some talking points, CPS sees no reason why you can’t be his legal guardian. If you’re interested, that is.”

Of all the things she expected the cop to say, this wasn’t it.

Tears spilled over David’s cheeks, bright and happy. Gwen leaned out of bed, gripping his shoulder even as pain ratcheted through hers. He was trembling violently, but his eyes sparkled like the detective had given him the world.

“Thank you,” he sobbed. “Thank you.”

“Oh, David, that’s amazing,” she said, stumbling over the words.

The detective sighed, waiting while they laughed and blubbered and came to terms with the fact that Max was going to be legal once again. He’d be able to go to school. Get a license. College. And David could tout him as his son, proud and loud, without any repercussions.

In that moment, Gwen felt like kissing the detective. If her shoulder wasn’t on fire, if she wasn’t so dizzy, she would have leapt out of bed and done it already.

 _They’d be fine_. Gwen could go back to Indiana, finally start that job, and David and Max would be perfectly fine.

It was over.

So why did her heart hurt more than her wounds?

“As happy as I am for you, I didn’t come here to talk about Max,” Detective Sanchez said. Her stony expression was back. “Mr. Forrester. Are you aware Cameron Campbell was listed as your legal beneficiary?”

Gwen tensed, but David just looked confused. He wiped his eyes, sniffed, and said, “Well, yes. I mean, he was, up until Max came to live with me. I changed my will two months ago so Max would get everything in the event I—ah—” He trailed off, running a hand over his bandaged thigh. 

Sanchez kept him on task. “But Campbell wasn’t aware you’d altered your will, was he? Considering he was still sending you monthly payments for the five _million_ dollar life insurance policy you took out eight months ago.”

Oh no.

No.

Gwen couldn’t believe it. She groaned, turning her eyes to the ceiling. Her head swam as she muttered, “ _Jesus_ , David.”

Now he sounded defensive. “He told me it would go back to the Camp! And—before Max, if I died, I wanted Camp Campbell to have… that…” he swallowed a groan. “Gosh darn it. He got me again, didn’t he?”

Gwen loved him, but Christ, he was gullible.

“Paying a hitman twenty thousand was a cheap price for the payout,” Sanchez sounded strangely pleased, despite her stalwart expression. Almost like she thrived off the thrill of a case solved—even when it came about from someone being an _utter moron_.

David always saw the best in people, even pigs like Campbell, and it almost cost him everything. But even sitting in the hospital room, with both of them sporting multiple stab wounds, Gwen hoped he’d never change.

Well, maybe he should change a little. Just where Campbell was concerned.

An insurance payout. Gwen closed her eyes in defeat, even as David spluttered apologies.

“We’ve alerted the FBI, considering Campbell’s, ah, _stature_ ,” Sanchez said. “And two agents in particular—a husband-husband duo—have assured me they’re on the case. But for your own safety, I’d recommend shredding those checks and canceling that policy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” David looked miserable now.

Gwen’s brow furrowed. This was so much information, and pain was starting to blossom from the wounds in her shoulder all the way down her left arm, and up through her neck. She wanted to sleep, but there was one last question.

“Then—was Daniel really an independent attack?”

“We searched his possessions and found a cell phone containing texts between him and Campbell. According to those, the two started plotting this six weeks ago, and Campbell incited Daniel to attack you first to save money.”

Sure. Cheaper to convince the cultist to take the fall.

Sanchez continued: “But Daniel advocated for something, ah… subtler than a mugging. Hence, the drug overdose.”

David shuddered. At Gwen’s sympathetic look, he clarified. “He—He cornered me in that alley and shoved a needle into my shoulder. I don’t… I can’t… _remember_ … much else.”

Sanchez shook her head again. “Apparently, death by overdose was taking too long for Campbell. When you didn’t die right away, he hired your second attacker. It isn’t clear whether or not he knew Daniel had already drugged you.” The detective’s lips quirked upwards. “I must say, this is certainly one of my more _intriguing_ cases.”

“Glad we could be of service,” Gwen scowled.

The detective caught the sarcasm in her tone and turned towards the door. “Indeed. Well, it’s time I get to the office. Lots of paperwork with this one. Mr. Forrester, keep an eye out for our CPS officer. She said she’d be stopping by.”

“Thank you,” David called after her.

She waved him off and opened the door, then stopped short. “Ah, hello, Max.” The cop moved sideways to admit the child in question.

He begrudgingly replied, “Hi, Detective Sanchez.”

“Max,” David gasped happily, pushing out of his chair.

Sanchez smiled and left, and Max slammed the door behind her. “Fucking cops,” he muttered, even though it didn’t sound as malicious as it had before. His bright green eyes zeroed on Gwen, and she swore she saw a flash of relief before he told David. “Sit down, you dumb fuck.”

David sunk into the wheelchair again, but when Max stopped beside him, shoving his hands into his hoodie, the man couldn’t seem to contain his glee. With a smile as big as the sun, he ruffled Max’s poofy hair. Max made a face and swatted him away, but when David wasn’t looking he quirked a smile.

Gwen spoke into the silence, offering a tired—satisfied—grin. “I guess you heard the news.”

“Heard? I _made_ that news,” Max drawled. “By the way, your step-dad’s an asshole.”

Gwen snorted.

And all seemed right with the world.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAHAHHHHH. 
> 
> Guys. I'm so fucking HAPPY. When I started this fanfic, I legit expected like, MAYBE 4,000 words. It's 40,000. And that's ALL because of you amazing reviewers. I so, SO appreciate everything you guys have said to me over the course of this journey. This fic was a much-needed mental break from my own original book, and I'm so fucking flattered there are people who review EVERY. SINGLE. CHAPTER. It's makes me feel like MY writing has kept you guys engaged and excited and emotional, which is just so flattering and guuuuuuys. *fans self to prevent tears of happiness*
> 
> OKAY ENOUGH SAPPINESS 
> 
> *sniff*
> 
> OKAY NOW ENOUGH
> 
> Future plans!! As much as I adore fanfiction, this was really just a mental break from my original stuff. So don't expect another multi-chapter fic from me, maybe ever... BUT I do have some ideas for oneshots set in this universe. I'll string these together as a series so you guys can find them easier. <3 They should be fluffy and adorable but, let's face it, it's me, so probably a few whump / sickfics will wedge their way into the mix... 
> 
> Aaaand of course there will be an epilogue. I'll upload that tomorrow. :D 
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42)
> 
> OKAY THAT'S IT WICKED42 OUT <3 <3 <3


	21. Epilogue

The call came at the worst possible time.

“Ah, of course, Mrs. Kiandra. I understand why you’re upset. However, considering the police confirmed methamphetamine in your apartment, you don’t actually have a—”

The woman on the other end screeched, cutting Gwen off with several well-placed curses. Gwen heaved a sigh, holding the company phone from her ear, even as Mary, a fellow columnist perched at her nearby desk, raised an eyebrow.

Gwen put a hand over the receiver and muttered to Mary, “Kill me now.”

Mary snickered. “Welcome to journalism.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear again. “Yes, I understand. But again, Mrs. Kiandra, your libel suit has no basis. For it to be successful, I’d have to be _lying_ about your reputation. But police confirmed—”

Mrs. Kiandra cut her off again, swearing up a storm that would make even Max blush.

Gwen sighed, putting the receiver on her desk. She rubbed her temples and let the exhaustion wash over her in waves. “God, are people always such fucking morons? And I thought the kids at Camp were bad.”

“Are you kidding? Kids are great,” Mary replied, typing absently for a few moments before finishing her thought. “You tell them how it is, and they believe you. Adults just argue.”

“You’ve clearly never met my best friend’s son,” Gwen said, snorting.

But rather than engage in the new conversation, Mary just shrugged. “I’d pick that up again, if I were you. Evans will be pissed if Mrs. Kiandra actually files that suit. More paperwork on all our ends.” She pointed at Gwen’s discarded phone.

Ugh. Mary was such a goody-goody, always vying to be in Evans’ shadow, sympathetic only until she could prove Gwen wasn’t _quite_ capable. It was a level of office politics Gwen never anticipated, and it was giving her whiplash.

At least at Camp, she knew where she stood. Here, it was anyone’s fucking guess.  

Gwen reluctantly put the phone back to her ear, but Mrs. Kiandra was still cursing everyone Gwen knew. Jesus. How many minutes did the city jail _give_ their inmates? They had to be creeping towards the limit now, right?

“—get you _fired_ ,” Mrs. Kiandra snarled.

And that’s when Gwen’s phone rang.

It was on silent, of course. Gwen wasn’t making that mistake again. But after everything in Denver, she wouldn’t risk missing another life-changing call. Her phone vibrated in her bag, and Mary’s laser eyes zeroed onto Gwen.

“Come on, hon. You’ve been here how many weeks now?” Mary said, curtly. She pointedly glanced around their cubicles, as if Evans may come strolling through at any moment and catch Gwen in the act.

Gwen glared at her. “It could be important.”

“Another family emergency?” Mary asked innocently. But everyone had heard of Gwen’s “emergency.” How Evans let her work from home for nearly three weeks while she recovered from a freak “mugging.” How tight-lipped Gwen got whenever anyone pried for details. How people muttered that she should be fired, that she wasn’t pulling her weight, but Evans was pinned in by HR to keep her on until she actually, you know, did something wrong.

She worked her _ass_ off for this company. But honestly, Camp was starting in a week, and—well, a full-time job with benefits, in a stuffy office, working for decent pay under an equally stuffy boss… it wasn’t quite as she expected.

Or hoped.

Her phone stopped ringing. Mrs. Kiandra hadn’t stopped shouting.

“I’m—taking my lunch break,” Gwen said, even though it was edging on 3pm. She pushed to her feet, wincing as the motion tugged her wounds. They’d closed weeks ago, but certain movements would pull the scars, causing twinges of pain.

“What about Mrs. Kiandra?” Mary tilted her head, but her insinuation was clear. _Solve the fucking problem first._

Gwen groaned and tuned back into the phone conversation. Was it a “conversation” if she hadn’t spoken in a few minutes? Or was that a lecture?

“Mrs. Kiandra, please. Let’s talk about this rationally.” Gwen winced, pausing under the woman’s onslaught. “Mrs. Kiandra. Mrs. Kiandra. Mrs. Ki—” But before she could repeat it a third time, the phone abruptly cut off.

Gwen smirked grimly and hung up. “Guess her calls are on a timer after all.”

Mary wrinkled her nose, a delicate gesture that reminded Gwen of the flower scouts. Prim and proper until the claws came out.

Jesus, she needed a breath of fresh air. Her fingers curled around her cell phone, still on silent inside her purse, as it began to buzz again.

Another phone call. Shit, what was she missing? In that moment, she panicked, a hundred percent certain David had been stabbed again, or drugged again, or—or Max had run away or was dying of a fever or _something_.

Her company phone rang on her desk.

Mary opened her mouth.

“Lunch,” Gwen gasped, and stumbled for the door.

Outside, the air was already kind of humid, which was surprising for the end of May. She pressed against the side of the building, tugging her now-silent phone from her purse. Her eyes drew to the screen, and she nearly laughed at the irony of it all.

Seven voicemails.

David had left her _seven_ fucking voicemails.

How he’d managed to call seven times without her noticing was a testament to how all-consuming this job was. She huffed and walked around the building, towards a tiny courtyard nestled between the brick and concrete. It had one solitary bench hidden under the expansive leaves of a massive oak tree, allowing Gwen to hide from the windows of the Zionsville Times Sentinel, and thus, her coworkers’ nosy stares.

For a long time, she didn’t dare play the voicemails. Her mind spun through a thousand scenarios, and fear paralyzed her to the spot. But—but for all she knew, David just got good news. She couldn’t live her life convinced something terrible would happen.

Besides, her break wouldn’t last forever.

Gwen drew a deep breath and played the first voicemail, bracing herself for a hospital’s stoic tone.

Instead, it was David, sounding… pretty damn confused.

 _“Holy gosh darn heck, Gwen! I know you’re at work, and I’m super sorry to bother you, but Max just told me—well, he told me you, ah…”_ David lowered his voice dramatically, _“You_ loved _me? Is—is that true? Call me back.”_

The message ended, but Gwen was fucking frozen.

Then the nervous laughter started. That went on for several minutes before, mind whirling, she began the next stage of her intense denial: hysterical rambling.

“Of course. Of course that little goddamn shit finally talked. I mean, I should be impressed he didn’t do it sooner. Or try to blackmail me in the meantime. Really, seven weeks is—is pretty impressive. Haha. Right? Impressive,” she moaned, dropping the phone to the bench and burying her head in her hands. “Jesus, I’m gonna kill that fucking kid.”

A window far, far above her hiked open, and Mary called down, “Gwen? Was that you? Mrs. Kiandra keeps calling.”

Gwen clamped her mouth shut and pressed closer to the oak tree’s trunk. She was trembling, she realized, fucking terrified of what David thought of her confession. A thousand possibilities ran through her mind, and she began formulating a response.

It was startlingly simple, really. She’d just… deny it. Max was known to say just about anything if it benefitted him. Surely David would believe he was using this “secret” as leverage to get something.

Right?

Y-Yeah. That was believable.

Deny, deny, deny. And maybe she could protect her emotions in the process.

But while Mary huffed and slammed the window closed, Gwen played the second voicemail with a shaking finger.

_“I know I only gave you a few minutes, but Gwen, I’m kind of flabbergasted here. Max went to school, and—I don’t know if you’re allowed to do Coffee Talk during work hours, or maybe just… you know, Talk, but I have to know if it’s true.”_

The voicemail ended. Gwen played the next three in rapid succession:

_“Gwen, gosh, if this is true, can you imagine? Maybe you can visit Denver. We should—ah, we should talk about this. In person. Never mind about the Coffee Talk. I’m gonna… well, I don’t know yet, but…”_

_“Oh, I bet it’s not true. Jeez, you’re going to get these messages and think I’ve gone nuts. Maybe I have. Max has that way, you know? He probably laughed all the way to school, and now he’s sitting in class imagining… well, who knows. I’m sorry to keep bothering you, Gwen.”_

_“Ah, okay, it’s been an hour and I’m going to stop calling. I am. Honest. Just—oh, gosh, Gwen, this is the slowest work day. I keep thinking—well, it’s not okay to keep pestering you. If you have time, call me. If not, I hope your job’s going well! I’m sure you’re writing a lot of great articles and changing lives!”_

Gwen stifled a laugh with her hand, but it was laced with fear. He sounded… carefully neutral? She literally couldn’t get a read; was that reaction good or bad? He wanted to talk in person, but was that so he could let her down gently?

God, if he waited until they met face to face to reject her, Gwen might actually kill him. Or herself. Murder-suicide. Hey, and then Mary would have something to write about.

She groaned, sinking into the bench as she played the sixth voicemail:

This one was Max, sounding beyond exasperated. _“Jesus, Gwen, I see why you kept it a fucking secret. David’s gone crazy. He’s packing a week early, and apparently we’re leaving for Camp. This is all your fault.”_

Shit, shit, shit. He was _packing_? Camp didn’t start for two more weeks; he wasn’t scheduled to set things up until next Friday. And now Max had ruined everything, and David was so overwhelmed he couldn’t even stay in Denver? Did he need the release of Camp Campbell that badly?

Anxiety churned in Gwen’s gut. She should call him. Find out what the hell was going on. That voicemail had been left when she’d been on the phone with Mrs. Kiandra. Which meant the last one was left walking downstairs, for her “lunch” break.

Eating was the last thing on her mind.

Of course, it was the last thing on Mary’s mind too. The woman slipped into the tiny courtyard, looking mildly annoyed. “So you were down here. Mrs. Kiandra has called you six times. She’s charging the newspaper for her minutes, and she’s going through with the lawsuit. Evans wants to see you, right now.”

“But I—” Gwen’s finger hovered over the final voicemail.

Mary narrowed her eyes, her kind persona evaporated for the day. “I wouldn’t test him, Gwen. But it’s your career on the line.” With a sniff, she stepped back towards the front entrance.

Gwen groaned and pocketed her phone, heart clenching, feeling sicker than she had in weeks. David clearly wasn’t on death’s door. Everything else, she could solve in two hours, when the Zionsville Times Sentinel closed its doors until tomorrow.

Assuming Evans didn’t have her working overtime again.

Assuming David even _wanted_ to chat after the break.

Assuming he and Max weren’t halfway to Camp Campbell already.

The rest of the day inched by. Everything was a worst-case scenario. Evans berated her for handling Mrs. Kiandra poorly, for failing to diffuse the situation, for putting the newspaper at risk. He assigned Mary as her supervisor while she filled out the necessary paperwork to protect their asses, including police statements and interviews and every other fact that would prove Mrs. Kiandra was, in fact, the drug dealer Gwen claimed.

She did work overtime. Mary and Evans and everyone else went home, the building went dark, but she stayed at her desk, typing furiously on her computer and carefully avoiding her phone.

Avoiding the final voicemail, which was undoubtedly David letting her down easily.

Gwen gulped back tears and sent her completed file to Evans to review in the morning. Then she shouldered her purse and powered off her laptop and trudged home, aching inside and out.

And as she climbed the steps to her second-story apartment, two familiar voices permeated the soft quiet of her complex.

Well, three.

“I told ya, you can’t _wait_ here,” a gruff voice snapped. “Move along before I call the police.”

“Jesus, David, I told you this was a stupid idea.”

“I just—can’t we stay a little longer, sir? I’m sure she’ll be home soon. She’s not answering her phone, but I know this is her apartment—”

“ _No loitering_ ,” the security guard growled.

Gwen’s heart leapt into her throat. He was here. David was _here_.

David was here.

Oh god.

She broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. Her foot clipped the last stair, and she went sprawling on the landing, sliding to David’s feet. “I’m here,” she gasped, then groaned. “Mostly.”

Everyone stared at her in shock, but David leapt into action first, kneeling to help her up. His movements were still stiff from the attack, but he wasn’t using a cane anymore, so that was encouraging. “See? I told you she was just working late! That’s Gwen, always so—”

“You know these two?” the security guard grumbled, jerking a thumb at David and Max.

Max flipped him off.

Gwen laughed. Jesus, she missed that kid. Even though she’d decided to kill him for what he’d done, happiness still surged at the sight of him. Of both of them. David’s hand was warm under hers as he helped her upright.

“Yeah, I know them. They’re my—ah, my friends.” She stumbled over the word, avoiding David’s gaze.

Friends. _Were_ they still friends? Or had she fucked that up again?

The security guard muttered under his breath and rolled his eyes and stomped away, down the stairs, out of sight. Max crossed his arms and said, “You gonna let us in? Because we’ve been out here a goddamn hour already.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, brows furrowing. Max was easier to look at than David, who still hadn’t let go of her hand. He seemed to realize it the same time she did, and they both recoiled.

Max looked between them and rolled his eyes. “I swear to god, Gwen, if I knew he’d flip his shit like this, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

They were carrying meager belongings, like they left David’s apartment in a hurry. Gwen wasn’t actually sure how David afforded the plane tickets, or the Ubers. He’d saved up for Camp, and Camp alone, but—now he was here.

And Gwen couldn’t figure out _why_.

Numbly, she let them into her apartment, and the blessed air conditioning washed over them. Indiana was hotter than Colorado, and Max had already stripped his hoodie. His eyes roamed her apartment—casually decorated with a hodgepodge of gifts and second-hand furniture—before settling on the fridge.

“You better make dinner. I want mac and cheese. David doesn’t make it right,” Max said in a huff.

But David caught her arm, and she finally met his gaze.

He looked about as anxious as she felt. But also determined, his lips set in a firm line as he released her. “Ah, Gwen… I—”

“You didn’t have to come all this way, David,” she replied. “There’s really nothing to say.”

His expression fell, which… wasn’t quite the reaction she expected. A crestfallen look meant he was sad. Sad she’d brushed him off, or sad he had to destroy the one tendril of hope she clung to way over here in Indiana?

She couldn’t tell.

“I’m just saying, you didn’t need to spend the money,” she tried to amend her comment. Anything to cheer him up, get them back to whatever normal was these days. She rubbed her arm where he’d touched her. His fingerprints felt like a match, burning bright and gone too soon.

And then he chuckled and said, “Gwen, you’re worth it.”

Her cheeks felt hot. The way he said that, with such warmth in his voice, like it was a given fact he’d fly to Indiana to clear up this mishap.

It was so different from how he reacted after the wedding. Maybe if he’d flown out like this back then, she wouldn’t have disbanded their friendship. Maybe they wouldn’t have lost those four months.

Or maybe she shouldn’t be wondering about the past when the present was slapping her in the face.

David stuck his hands into his pockets, swallowing. “Was—Was Max right? He said you were going to tell me at the wedding. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said, quietly.

His gaze was imploring. “And now?”

Oh, god. This was it. He wanted her to put her feelings on the line, but she wasn’t brave enough to do it. If he rejected her, refused her, she’d break. And she’d _just_ put herself back together.

“Mac and cheese, Gwen,” Max said, loudly.

“Ah, okay,” she flashed David an apologetic—cop-out—smile and ducked into the kitchen.

David followed at a slower pace, shooting Max a stern gaze. “Max, what did I say about interrupting?”

And to her surprise, the kid pursed his lips and muttered, “It’s rude.”

“Gwen and I were having a very important conversation. Can you give us a minute, buddy? I’ll make you mac and cheese in a bit.”

“You don’t make it right,” Max grumbled.

Gwen plucked a box from the cabinet. After she came back from Indiana, she’d stocked her pantry with Max’s favorite things… just in case he and David stopped by. Frivolous thinking, but apparently it paid off tonight. “I’ll make it, Max. Right now.”

She got busy heating the pot, boiling the water.

David watched from afar, lips pursed. After several tense minutes, where Max heaved a long-suffering sigh and began perusing her tiny apartment, scrutinizing every item with muttered judgment, David leaned against the kitchen counter and said, “You didn’t know we were coming?”

She shook her head.

He frowned. “Did you hear my voicemails?”

“Some of them.”

“What about the last one?”

She stiffened. “Ah, no. I didn’t have time to listen to it.”

“You should.”

Two words. But the tone he used made her flinch, and as if on autopilot, she tugged the phone from her pocket, held it to her ear. The seventh voicemail was David’s, sounding a lot calmer and centered than the last several.

_“Okay, Gwen. We’re flying out to see you. Be there by 6pm. Gosh, I hope you still feel the same way, because there hasn’t been a day since I woke up in that hospital that I haven’t loved you too. See you soon.”_

The message ended, and Gwen stared at the roiling macaroni. For a long moment, she forgot how to breathe, how to think, how to speak.

And then David asked again, “And now?”

She dropped the phone.

Now.

 _Now_ they were getting somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING! <3 <3
> 
> Like I said before, the story doesn't end here! I'm going to be writing some oneshots in this AU, so [follow me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wicked-42) for updates on that. I will also be answering questions over there and considering prompts for future oneshots (for a little while, anyway)!


End file.
